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Religious architecture: anthropological perspectives
Verkaaik, O.G.A.
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Download date: 16 Jun 2017
Oskar Verkaaik is Associate Professor of Anthropology at the
University of Amsterdam.
“Compelling and thought provoking collection of essays by anthropologists on
religious architecture that shed new theoretical light on the relation between the
material and immaterial in the realm of religion in our so-called secular world.”
Jojada Verrips, em. professor of Cultural anthropology, University of Amsterdam
Religious
Religious Architecture
Religious Architecture: Anthropological Perspectives develops
new anthropological perspectives on religious architecture, including
mosques, churches, temples and synagogues. Borrowing from a
range of theoretical perspectives on space-making and material
religion, this volume looks at how religious buildings take their
place in opposition to the secular surroundings and the neoliberal
city; how they, as evocations of the sublime, help believers to move
beyond the boundaries of modern subjectivity; and how international
heritage status may conflict with their function as community centres.
The volume includes contributions from a range of anthropologists,
social historians, and architects working in Brazil, India, Italy, Mali,
the Netherlands, Russia, Spain, and the uk.
Architecture
Anthropological Perspectives
Edited by Oskar Verkaaik
Verkaaik (ed.)
isbn 978 90 8964 511 1
A m s t e r d a m U n i ve r s i t y P r e s s • w w w. aup. n l
Amsterdam University Press
religious architecture
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Religious
Architecture
Anthropological Perspectives
Edited by
Oskar Verkaaik
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Cover illustration: View across the Mosque’s roofscape of skylights or
vents and towering pinnacles (Trevor Marchand)
Cover design: Studio Jan de Boer, Amsterdam
Lay-out: V3-Services, Baarn
Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the
us and Canada by the University of Chicago Press.
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Table of Contents
Religious Architecture 7
Anthropological Perspectives
Oskar Verkaaik
Stability, Continuity, Place 25
An English Benedictine Monastery as a Case Study in Counterfactual
Architecture
Richard D.G. Irvine
47
A Symmetrical Anthropology of Islamic Architecture in Rotterdam
Pooyan Tamimi Arab
The Biggest Mosque in Europe!
63
The Ecstasy of the Igreja de São Francisco, Salvador da Bahia, Brazil
Mattijs van de Port
Golden Storm
83
New Churches in Post-Soviet Russia
Tobias Köllner
Works of Penance
Divining Siddhivinayak 99
The Temple and the City
Markha Valenta
117
World Heritage and Social Renewal in a West African Town
Trevor H.J. Marchand
The Djenné Mosque
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The New Morabitun Mosque of Granada and the Sensational Practices of
Al Andaluz 149
Oskar Verkaaik
The Israelite Temple of Florence
171
Ivan Kalmar
The Mosque in Britain Finding its Place
185
Shahed Saleem
About the Authors
Index
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205
209
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Religious Architecture
Anthropological Perspectives
Oskar Verkaaik
Given that many people of religion tend to downplay the importance of
religious buildings as merely representing the outside or the superficial
part of their religion, it is remarkable how much time, energy and – above
all – money are put into the construction of new religious buildings all
over the world. Proselytising Christian groups in the us, Europe or Africa
have built an astonishing number of new churches, some of which are
quite costly and spectacular, and they will continue to do so (LeCavalier
2009). Since the end of Communism in the former Soviet Union, many
new Russian orthodox churches have been built and others have been
restored or rebuilt (Köllner 2011). New Hindu temples have been erected
in India in some of the places that have benefited the most from the economic liberation since the 1980s (Valenta 2010). We find many new, purpose-built mosques in Western Europe and the us as well as in countries
where Muslims make up a majority. A remarkable but little noticed example of contemporary religious architecture is the recent boom in synagogue building in Germany thanks to the influx of Jews from the former
Soviet Union since the 1990s. In addition, in predominantly secular and
multicultural societies and spaces, we see the emergence of new secular
or multi-faith retreats which offer some of the facilities that mosques,
churches, synagogues and temples also offer (Hewson 2011; HolsappelBrons 2010). All over the world, religious buildings are being restored as
heritage sites.
Still, anyone involved in the study of religious architecture will recognise the moment when practitioners of faith question this scholarly interest as slightly beside the point. ‘Professor, please stop asking about architecture,’ a New York-based imam asked Jerillynn Dodds (2002: 67) after
a long interview about contemporary mosque design in the us. Although
some may argue that mosques, like synagogues, are essentially just religious community centres – unlike, for instance, Catholic churches which
Catholics supposedly consider sacred spaces – there is a tendency across
all contemporary religions to argue that the heart of religion lies in indi-

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vidual faith, the community, charitable deeds, ritual or doctrine, but not
primarily in the religious building. Put otherwise, the soul of the building
lies in its people, not in the material of which it is made. Anthropologists
do not usually disregard the statements of informants as irrelevant. Why
then devote a whole book to the topic of modern religious architecture?
One answer lies in anthropological methodology, developed ever since
the publication of Bronislaw Malinowski’s seminal Argonauts of the Western Pacific (1922), which is based on the idea that people do not always
do what they say they are doing and that there is often a discrepancy between ideology and practice. Why, for instance, spend such an astonishing amount of money to erect a church or a mosque if it hardly matters?
Despite many Muslims’ insistence that one can perform one’s religious
duties everywhere, it often happens that a poor migrant community of
two hundred active members in a small European town will raise two million euro to build a new community mosque. Former labour migrants skip
the annual summer trip to their country of origin to be able to contribute
to a new mosque in Germany, France or the uk. True, people pray in
makeshift places and often do so without complaints. After the Second
World War, several Dutch Jewish communities, for instance, tried to regain some Jewish community life by hiring small rooms in hotels or school
buildings to congregate for Sabbath. But many of these Jewish communities are now putting a lot of energy into restoring old synagogues, rescuing them from destruction, and using them again as centres for religious
community activities. Apparently, buildings do somehow matter, despite
religious dogma.
One of the most perceptive answers to the puzzle of why people put
a lot of time into something they proclaim to be obsolete is the argument that religious buildings may not be crucial for religious reasons but
are important in a social or political sense. In the case of contemporary
mosques in North America and Europe, we find interpretations of this
kind in the work of Dodds (2002) and Metcalf (1996), among others. The
argument postulates that for religious minorities, their religious buildings
represent religious identity and power and are therefore linked to processes of emancipation or integration. In nineteenth-century Europe, the
Moorish style of synagogues or the neo-Gothic style of Catholic churches
certainly served such purposes of visibility and communal pride. Similarly, some of the impressive contemporary mosques in the Islamic world,
such as the ones in Casablanca or Islamabad, are obviously linked to postcolonial state power and may primarily be considered nationalist monuments rather than religious buildings in a strict sense. In sum, this inter-

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pretation has the merit that it takes seriously what religious people say
as well as what they do. They say that for religious purposes the building
is meaningless, but they build and pay for them anyway because of their
social or political significance.
Despite this analytical elegance, however, the interpretation is not entirely satisfactory because it draws a conceptual line between religious
and political aspects of contemporary religion that may not exist as such
in the eyes of people of faith. Drawing on the same distinction between
inner faith and outer form that has relegated ritual to the margins of religious experience (Asad 1993a), this analysis seems to separate the ritual,
aesthetic and habitual dimensions of religion from the question of religious social identity and political power. It implicitly assumes that one
can distinguish between on the one hand the material expression of religion that belongs to the superficial domain of political identity and on the
other hand the immaterial true heart of religion. Although this is precisely the division that many modern religious people make when they argue
that religious architecture is obsolete, some of the most relevant recent
anthropological contributions to the study of contemporary religion rest
upon the critique of this very disconnection of the immaterial from the
material. In his work on materiality, Daniel Miller for instance argues that
although religion by definition strives for the immaterial beyond the material, it necessarily needs the material to evoke the immaterial (Miller 2005:
1). Like earlier studies on the importance of ritual for religious collective
behaviour, Birgit Meyer has developed the notion of ‘sensational form’ to
argue that contemporary religion is not merely a mental and ethical engagement with religious doctrine but a profound somatic, performative
and aesthetic commitment to ‘the affective power of images, sounds, and
texts on their beholders’ (Meyer 2009: 6). Others like Webb Keane (2008)
and David Morgan (2010) have argued that material religious objects do
not simply express already existing religious identities but may be constitutive of certain religious sensations and experiences that impact upon a
religious sense of self. In the work of these authors, the material and immaterial are reconnected again even in the most iconoclastic forms of religion. Hence, we not only see the profound Muslim purist renouncing all
reverence of material form as idol worship (shirk) but also the person who
treats the material form of the Quran with the utmost respect or adores
the voice who performs a beautiful Quranic recitation.
It is from these insights on how the material can be constitutive of
the immaterial that the chapters in this book deal with religious architecture as an aspect of contemporary religion that goes beyond the repre-
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sentation of religious power or identity. Although churches, synagogues,
mosques and temples obviously do represent religious communities and
hierarchies to the outside world – and most authors in this volume do pay
attention to this aspect – their relevance to modern religious life is much
broader. In this book we bring together chapters that discuss religious
architecture as not merely expressing identities but performing religious
identities; as representing not just identities to the outside world but
ways to broaden and internalise one’s knowledge of religious doctrine or
deepen one’s faith. There are chapters about the importance of religious
architecture for the creation or reproduction of religious communities
and about religious space as an intrinsic part of ritual rather than a mere
container of ritual. There are contributions about religious architectural
forms evoking sensations that, in an almost Durkheimian way, evoke a
sense of effervescence that intensifies religious feelings or, in contrast,
arouse intense feelings of dislike in conflicts over space-making (whose
city is this?) and religious doctrine (what is and is not allowed according
to the traditions?). In short, all these essays regard religious buildings as
playing a more active part in processes of religious experience, identity
and community than the conceptual split of the building in a private religious interior and a social, political exterior would allow for.
An anthropology of religious architecture
It is often said that anthropologists pay scant attention to architecture –
a statement informed as much by reality as by ignorance (Buchli 2002:
208; Vellinga 2007 & 2011; Verkaaik 2012). As a result of the unproductive nineteenth-century divide between the Great Tradition of high art
and the Little Tradition of folklore, anthropologists have indeed to some
extent left the study of architecture to art historians and architectural
critics. Nonetheless, anthropologists have written much more about
buildings, including religious buildings, than is often assumed. Although
there is a considerable body of literature about vernacular architecture
(e.g. Amerlinck 2001; Blier 2006; Rapoport 1969; Vellinga 2004), predominantly about houses (Carsten & Hugh-Jones 1995; Gullestad 1984)
but also including some work on religious architecture (Marchand 2001,
2009; Nelson 2007), there is less about modern architecture in anthropological writing. In different ways, Clifford Geertz (1980), Edmund Leach
(1983), Maurice Bloch (1968), Pierre Bourdieu (1973) and even Marc Augé
(1995) have all looked at how buildings represent and reproduce cosmolo-
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gies and social hierarchies, but they have hardly explored how people use,
read or ‘consume’ buildings. Tim Ingold (2000) and others influenced
by Heidegger’s notion of ‘dwelling’ (1997) explore how people position
themselves within the natural environment, but they pay less attention to
how people do so in built environments. The recently developing study of
space and place (Lawrence-Zuniga & Low 1990; Low & Lawrence-Zuniga
2003) does focus on the politics as well as the consumption of built spaces, but it tends to take the materiality of architecture for granted. Materiality and its affect, however, play a larger role in recent studies of modern
iconoclasm and utopian architecture (Buchli 1999; Rabinow 1995; Hoorn
2009), but this has had little influence on the anthropological study of
religious architecture thus far.
Anthropologists have a lot to learn from art historians and architectural critics, but they also have a great deal to contribute. Consider, for
instance, Eric Roose’s recent study of contemporary mosque design in the
Netherlands. His iconological approach is a welcome correction to the architectural critical perspective that dominates the public debate about the
issue. Rather than interpreting contemporary mosques in terms of temporal and regional styles as many architectural critics do when they dismiss
new mosques as nostalgic replicas of the Ottoman, Moghul or Mamluk
tradition, Roose focuses on the designing process as a symbolic-political
practice. Mosque commissioners do not simply and unreflectively copy
styles from their country of origin, they actively choose between various
forms and styles to make a political statement. Explicitly borrowing from
an interactionalist perspective on culture, Roose treats the parties involved as political actors rather than mere children of their times (Roose
2009).
Anthropology also offers an alternative to a dominant perspective in
architectural criticism that treats buildings as texts, as speaking architecture or architecture parlante. Like literary critics, architectural critics
tend to focus on what the architect, as author, tries to convey about the
function, symbolism or even character of the building. The semiotic approach in anthropology is more complex as it treats texts, like symbols,
as inherently polysemic and contextual (Buchli 2002). This shifts the attention from the design and construction of buildings to the question of
how people use them, from production to consumption (Vellinga 2011).
Moreover, the centrality of context in meaning-making processes makes
it possible to argue that buildings may have different meanings or even
‘lives’ (Appadurai 1986) to different groups of people in different periods
of time. Rather than trying to decipher the authoritative meaning of a
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building – that is, the opinion of the architect, the commissioner or architectural critics – an anthropological perspective focuses on shifts and
conflicts in meaning-making practices.
Taken together, the interactionalist and contextual-interpretative approaches allow for a perspective on buildings as more than just passive
objects or texts conveying a static message. Recently, anthropologists like
Daniel Miller (1987) and Alfred Gell (1998) have questioned the ‘objective’ nature of ‘objects’. Building upon philosophical and theoretical backgrounds as wide apart as Hegel’s notion of objectification and Mauss’s
concept of reciprocity, these theorists argue that the relation between an
object and its maker or user is an interactive, dynamic one. We find similar arguments in Actor Network Theory (Latour 2005) and, much earlier,
in Gregory Bateson’s work on cybernetics (Bateson 1971). More directly
related to the issue of religious architecture is the work of Yael NavaroYashin (2009) on ‘affective spaces’ and ‘spatial melancholia’. To analyse the
affective power of spaces and building, Navaro-Yashin refers to Spinoza’s
notion of the affect – a crucial building block for Spinoza’s theory of the
unity of body and mind – and Deleuze’s interpretation of the affect as
a sensation that ‘moves through human bodies, but that do not necessarily emerge from them’ (ibid: 12). The power of affect, in other words,
may originate from outside the human being in objects like buildings.
Deleuze’s notion of the affect allows us to conceive human experience
not merely in terms of subjectivity and the symbolic interpretation of the
world but also in terms of environmental impulses and ‘lines of flight’
(Deleuze & Guattari 1987) that have the capacity to move human beings
beyond their learned symbolic registers. It is from this perspective that it
can be argued that religious spaces have a kind of agency. They are manmade products that have an impact on human experience. Concretely,
buildings limit or direct movement, impress visitors, affect the senses,
evoke connotations. Neither an empty cipher with no intrinsic meaning
whatsoever nor an authoritative text, a building provides opportunities
for processes of identification within a particular social context. We are
being trained to interpret and experience buildings in a certain way, but
that does not exclude the possibility that they may, positively or negatively, overwhelm us and make us look at ourselves and our communities
in a new or renewed way.
Recent studies in material religion focus explicitly on this dynamic and
interactional relation between material objects and religious subjects.
The works of Saba Mahmood (2005) or Annelies Moors (2009) on Islamic
veiling, for instance, interpret this practice as a technique of becoming a
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pious Muslim. More than just a symbol of religious identity, the veil can
be seen as an affective object – an object, that is, that imposes its power
onto the human subject and affects the subjectivity of the person who
wears it. By wearing the veil, Muslim women actively allow the affective
power of the material to transform their sense of self. This volume looks
at religious architecture in a similar way. More than just a ‘message cast in
stone’, as the iconological approach would have it, several of the authors
in this book consider mosques and churches and synagogues as affective places. Working in the spirit of philosophers like Gaston Bachelard
(1969) and Brian Massumi (2002) as well as architects like Juhani Pallasmaa (2005) and Peter Zumthor (1999), to name but a few, several chapters in this book look at those qualities of architecture that do not simply
represent something that already exists but that help make and unmake
identities, enable and disrupt experiences, create, reproduce or break up
communities – in short, that make a change.
In sum, interactionalism and identification are conceptual key terms in
this volume. As used here, interactionalism refers to two processes: 1) the
negotiations between various parties in the design, construction and use
of religious buildings, and 2) the dynamic relations between the architectural object and the religious subject. Identification refers to the idea that
a religious self engages in a socio-material field that includes both others
(fellow community members, secular majorities, religious minorities and
so on) and objects (including religious buildings and places). Although
these two terms – interactionalism and identification – do not return in
each and every chapter, all of the contributions are concerned with interactive, dynamic relations of identification between religious groups and
architectural spaces.
What is religious architecture?
Ever since Talal Asad’s critique of substantive definitions of religion, especially those by Clifford Geertz (1973), and his insistence that definitions
of religion are always situational (Asad 1993b), it is no longer self-evident
what religious means within a particular historical moment. This has obvious consequences for the definition of religious architecture. For how
exactly does religious architecture differ, for instance, from the architecture of the modern state? The greatness of God expressed in architectural form has an obvious family likeness to the greatness of the state as
represented in modern architectural monuments. When it comes to the
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evocation of ritual effervescence, a sense of community or the sensation
of the sublime – all aspects we might associate with religion – we might
find these qualities in secular buildings like sport stadiums, modern museums or courts of law rather than in modern churches or mosques. To
define religion in terms of the holy, the sacred or the transcendent does
not solve the problem either: to talk of mosques or synagogues in such
terms has often been criticised as importing Christian notions about religious space into Islam or Judaism (Eade 1996: 226). And even though
this viewpoint may draw too sharp a boundary between Catholicism and
other monotheisms on the basis of religious texts and received ideas
alone, whereas in actual practice many Muslims and Jews also seem to
recognise the special character of religious spaces, anthropologists have
consistently maintained that the rigid distinction between the sacred and
the profane that informed classical sociological definitions of religion is
untenable cross-culturally (Evans-Pritchard 1965; Goody 1961). Churches and synagogues lose their religious function and are converted into
houses, museums or cultural centres. Does that mean they are no longer
religious buildings? Or vice versa, is a former garage or school building
turned into a mosque a piece of religious architecture? Several authors
have pointed out that space is defined by ritual rather than the other
way around and that the status of a building as religious or even sacred
is situational (Smith 1987; Metcalf 1996), which suggests that definitions
can never be static.
One solution to the problem of definition is to give up a substantive
definition of religious architecture altogether and follow Asad’s point that
the religious is always constituted by the secular and vice versa. In this
line of reasoning, religious spaces are almost by definition ‘heterotopias’
– a term coined by Foucault to denote ‘other spaces’ or ‘espace autres’. In
the ‘infinite, and infinitely open space’ of the secular, some spaces defy the
‘desanctification of space’ by being ‘other’, ‘counter-sites’, ‘fantasmatic’, ‘a
mirror’ (Foucault 1967). In a similar vein, Bataille could compare religious
sites to slaughterhouses: both are expelled from the secular main street
and, on top of that, are – in Bataille’s essentialist take – places of sacrifice (1997: 22). The important point of these insights seems to me that
religious architecture is not defined by some inherent qualities but by its
opposition to secular space and its potential to create spaces of affirmative transgression where the secular is confirmed by the very existence of
its opposite. However, although the notion of heterotopia may be helpful
to understand the place of religious spaces in societies where secularism
is the dominant belief system (see, for instance, Irvine in this volume), the
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downside of it is that it makes it very difficult to see how the religious and
the secular come together in a mutually affirmative rather than a dialectic way, for instance in churches or mosques that are built to the greater
glory of the head of state or a rich local entrepreneur (see Köllner in this
volume).
Another solution, then, might be a return to a functional definition
of religion and religious architecture. According to Roy Rappaport, the
function of religion lies partly in its capacity to ‘offset the deficiencies of
language and symbolic culture’ (Lambek 2001). Although thoroughly part
of the social and political world, partly indeed as the necessary contrast
to the secular, religion also evokes a domain beyond the social world of
learned speak and symbolic behaviour, offering a ritually defined entrance
to this domain. Obviously, religion is not alone in its evocation of the
sublime. Art, psychology, travel, violence and other bodily practices may
generate similar desires and techniques to fulfill them. We might indeed
get ourselves into trouble if we try to argue that modern religion stands
out as somehow special and unique amidst other techniques of evoking
the Real. A more fruitful way to emphasise the significance of modern religion might be to say that in highly disciplined modern societies that constantly instill modern subjects with the romantic aspiration for authentic
individuality, religion is one of various ways that modern society offers
to consume this desire. If this is so, the question becomes how religious
architecture evokes and fulfills this desire.
A third and perhaps academically unsatisfactory solution to the problem of definition is to take common sense demarcations for granted. For
although it may be difficult to conceptually distinguish modern religion
from, say, the sovereign power of the bureaucratic state, the autoreferential qualities of art or the communal aspects of sport, modern subjects,
including anthropologists, do make these distinctions in everyday speech.
This is a social fact that has an effect of its own. That is not to deny that it
may be useful and welcome to destabilise common sense notions of religion by comparing religious architecture with skyscrapers in the business
centres of global cities – New York’s Saint Patrick Cathedral is indeed
one of the smallest buildings in its surroundings, and the term ‘ecstatic
architecture’ has recently been used for postmodern office towers rather
than for religious buildings (Jencks 1999). In many other ways, the conceptual distinction between religious and non-religious architecture remains blurred and problematic. And yet most of our informants seem to
have a fairly clear idea about religious buildings as purpose-built places
where people come to perform rituals they themselves call religious or
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where communities gather under the flag of some faith. Or rather: the
problem of definition is relevant for them on some level but not on another. Muslims may, for instance, have fierce discussions about the doctrinal requirements of a mosque, about questions such as whether a mihrab
(where the person stands who leads the collective prayer) is required or
not? In other words, they may struggle with the definition of a mosque in
terms of the Quran and the Hadith, but they know perfectly well where a
person is going when he says he is going to the mosque. Grounding ourselves in this practical knowledge, then, we ask questions about the relation between the building with its architectural form and the interactions
and experiences people have when they individually or collectively engage
with the building as a self-defined religious place.
This volume borrows from all of these three definitional tactics, all of
which direct us to relevant questions about how religious buildings, as
heterotopias, take their place in opposition to the secular surroundings;
how they, as evocations of the sublime, help believers to move beyond the
boundaries of modern subjectivity; and how they, in their common sense
definition, function as community centres in urban daily life.
Introduction to the chapters
Building upon the definitions and theoretical framework outlined above,
this collection addresses a number of themes: affect, identity, community,
heritage and the relations and conflicts between these various aspects of
religious buildings. I will briefly specify how these themes are addressed
in the various chapters.
Richard Irvine’s chapter about an English Benedictine monastery
explicitly deals with religious architecture as ‘counterfactual’ and selfconsciously opposed to key values of dominant secular society. Although
its nineteenth-century neo-Gothic architecture was originally meant as
an expression of a Catholic minority religious identity, the meaning of
the building has changed considerably, as it now stands out as a place of
stability and tradition in a world of ‘global movement and fleeting interaction’, as Irvine puts it with reference to the work of Marc Augé. Irvine
describes how the architecture of the place is intimately linked with the
everyday routine of Catholic ritual, and it is this combination of ritual
taking place in a particular architectural setting that creates the ‘value of
staying put’, as one monk puts it. Heritage, community, identity and affect
are all intertwined because the sense of tradition and stability that gives
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the community of monks its modern ‘counterfactual’ identity is aroused
not in the least by the very materiality of the monastery as a site of English
Catholic heritage.
Analysing the mythical language of size in relation to newly built
mosques in Europe, Pooyan Tamimi Arab addresses the issues of affect
and identity within the highly politicised context of European Islam. Focusing on the Essalam Mosque of Rotterdam and how it is framed as a
‘megamosque’ or ‘the biggest mosque in Europe’ by Dutch Muslims and
anti-Islam politicians alike, Tamimi Arab examines the affective dimension of this depiction. Although the Essalam Mosque is, in reality, not the
biggest mosque of Europe, the author is less interested in analysing the
‘megamosqueing’ myth as a discursive construction than in seeking to
find out how the myth works for various parties involved. Using Bruno
Latour’s notion of ‘symmetrical anthropology’ in which fact and fetish
are no longer seen as oppositional, Tamimi Arab analyses the role of the
building in current identity politics, emphasising how its mythical reputation impacts how the physicality of the mosque is experienced.
The issue of affect is taken up further by Mattijs van de Port who in his
contribution explicitly focuses on the question of how the sublime can
be evoked by architectural means. Taking the baroque church architecture of Brazil as his example, Van de Port explores what Jens Baumgarten has called the ‘visual rhetorics’ of the Brazilian baroque architecture
(Baumgarten 2010). Whereas Baumgarten examines the religious, aesthetic and social dimensions of the Brazilian baroque, Van de Port explicitly rejects a historical or representational interpretation that would
explain baroque colonial architecture in the context of the CounterReformation, colonial expansion and Brazilian nationalism. Instead, he
delves into the question of how baroque architecture affects the senses,
developing an argument that is reminiscent of Edmund Leach’s point in
an article on Hindu temples: that the overwhelming and spectacular presence of a magnitude of gods and goddesses functions to derail the senses
of the visitor and in that way to take him beyond himself. Borrowing from
the equally self-consciously ahistorical work of Bataille and Barthes, Van
de Port emphasises the ‘sovereign power of form itself ’ to develop an argument about the interaction between architectural form and human perception. Put differently, this contribution focuses on how the sensational
form of the baroque church creates a dimension beyond the realm of discursive identity formation. If Irvine and Tamimi Arab emphasise in their
contributions the relations between affect and identity, Van de Port forms
a counterpoint to these opening chapters by indicating how architecture
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can create a sensation of the sublime which overturns and deranges religious-political identity.
Tobias Köllner’s chapter on new Russian Orthodox churches in contemporary Russia shifts our attention to issues of heritage and community. After the fall of communism, the Russian Orthodox Church has reentered the public space, and many new churches and monasteries have
been built since the 1990s. Describing two such cases in the monumental
city of Vladimir, Köllner highlights the moral dimension of gift-giving in
the context of religious revival. The financial gifts of entrepreneurs who
have made the most of Russian capitalism, as well as the manual labour
contributed by poor religious community members, are interpreted as
public works of penance. Interestingly, it is through these gifts that public tensions in the new Russia can temporarily be solved. Not only do
new churches link local communities to the nation by reviving national
religious heritage, the gifts given to new church projects also reinforce
economic ties and political positions whereas they also function as a public form of moral purification. For example, through financial gifts, rich
businessmen strengthen their relationships with local politicians and the
Russian Orthodox establishment but also publicly and privately show
themselves as moral persons, capable of sin and penance. It is this religious money that hints at the links between the simultaneous rise of the
Russian Orthodox Church and Russian capitalism.
Even more than Köllner, Markha Valenta zooms in on religious architecture as an expression of contemporary global capitalism. Her account of the Siddhivinayak Temple, the richest and most spectacular of
Mumbai, is an explicit attempt to analyse what is contemporary about
contemporary religious architecture. Refusing any kind of reductionism,
Valenta describes how the rise of the temple, which attracts some 100,000
visitors daily, reflects the political, economic and cultural changes since
the 1980s and how these changes have impacted Mumbai as a global city.
Indicative of these often-conflicting changes, the temple itself is full of
contradictions. Symbolising a new demotic Hinduism, for instance, it also
functions like a gated community with airport-like security and modern
technologies that make the structure largely self-provisional and yet globally connected through media and finance. It speaks of the conflictual
but simultaneous rise of chauvinistic and cosmopolitan Hindu religious
politics, of Bollywood as well as Shiv Sena. In these and other ways, the
Siddhivinayak Temple is, as Valenta puts it, reflective of ‘the structural
interplay between equality, (dis)possession, consumption and desire in
our brave new world’.
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In his analysis of the Great Mosque in Djenné, Mali, reputedly the
world’s largest mud structure, Trevor Marchand takes the issue of heritage and community further, explicitly emphasising the potential tension
that exists between the interests of heritage preservation and community
activity. Starting out by documenting various historical ideological disputes about its design that arose over the years between locals and invading religious purists, Marchand then moves on to describe the re-plastering ceremonies that take place annually to maintain the structure. These
ceremonies become festive rituals that reproduce a sense of community.
However, the mosque is also world heritage, the object of conservation
projects financed by donors like the Aga Khan Trust for Culture, and a focus point of the annual Festival du Djennéry that is largely staged for tourists, all of which neglect the important social function of the maintenance
activities by the Muslim community. The conflict becomes one between
the outsiders’ admiration for the building as an authentic end-product
and the seasonal engagement of the community with the materiality and
building techniques.
A similar tension occurs in Verkaaik’s discussion of the new mosque
in Granada, Spain, built and used by Western converts to Islam who have
settled in the shadow of the Alhambra. Like Marchand’s contribution,
this chapter describes the encounter between tourists seeking authentic
Moorish culture and Muslim converts doing largely the same but with
a religious rather than a leisurely purpose. A profound difference with
the Great Mosque in Djenné, however, is that the Muslim community in
Granada is a new community of converts who need to establish a religious
habitus from scratch. The sensational practices of making things in a refashioned and revitalised Moorish tradition are an important part of this
effort to create a new aesthetic community. Verkaaik also describes how
this attempt clashes with reformist-minded notions of Islam as a truly
inward-looking faith and how this enigma of religion and aesthetics leads
to local discussions about time and beauty.
Ivan Kalmar’s contribution discusses another example of how the
Moorish legacy of Al-Andaluz is revived in a modern context. Focusing
on nineteenth-century synagogue building in Europe – in this case the
synagogue in Florence, Italy – Kalmar refutes the often-repeated notion
that the Moorish style as applied to synagogues expressed an admiration
for religious tolerance in Muslim Spain. Based on historical documents,
he shows how in the nineteenth century the Moorish style was associated
with the Orient. Since the Jews were seen as an ‘Oriental’ people, nonJewish architects in particular considered the Moorish style appropriate
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for synagogues. The rediscovery of the Moorish style was thus related
to the growing visibility and integration of Jews as a separate ethnicreligious community.
Shahed Saleem also focuses on contemporary mosque design, namely
the various trends and development in mosque building in postwar Britain. Some of the discussions about style and identity in the case of the
contemporary British mosque are comparable to the discussions analysed
by Kalmar, but Saleem also takes the analysis a step further by analysing
the designing process as a process of negotiation, learning and ‘objectification’. Disagreeing with the often-heard criticism that European Muslims simply produce cheap replicas of traditional Islamic building styles,
Saleem points out the many variations, adaptations and innovations in
British mosque design. Although the gaze of the secular world affects in
an important way how Muslims design their mosques, Saleem’s look at
the mosque interior shows that Muslims are also driven by other concerns
such as religious disputes on mosque design, the wish to create a familiar and relaxing place for prayer, and the ambition to literally build an
English Muslim identity. These complex interactions make the designing
and building process ‘a performance that the community engages in to establish its own dynamics and relationships to each other and the outside
world’.
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Stability, Continuity, Place
An English Benedictine Monastery as a Case Study in
Counterfactual Architecture
Richard D.G. Irvine
This is about a home: Downside Abbey in Somerset, England, which is
home to a community of Catholic monks who derive their pattern of life
ultimately from the sixth-century Rule of Saint Benedict. What I want
to explore here is the active role of buildings in Benedictine life, and the
crucial part that architecture plays in building up an English Benedictine
identity. The monastery is a practical architecture for living – praying,
eating, working, studying, sleeping – as well as a visible site of witness to
the world. Drawing on ethnographic and historical research, I will first
attempt to describe the role that architecture plays in the monks’ lives
and will then introduce the idea that monastic architecture might productively be treated as ‘counterfactual architecture’ – that is, architecture
that raises ‘what if?’ questions about history and social life.
Benedictine monks are men whose life cycles become wrapped around
a particular place, a set of buildings that shape their daily routine. To offer
some context, I will begin by describing an event that is simultaneously
ordinary and extraordinary: the monastic community gathers around the
altar, as they do every day, for the conventual (communal) celebration of
Mass. To return to the same places day after day, week after week, year
after year – this is the monk’s pattern of life. To repeat the same gestures,
the same words, in the same locations. This is a life shaped by the call to
prayer, the continual, steady striking of ‘Great Bede’1 from the Abbey’s
square tower calling you again and again toward the place of worship. The
monks take up their places towards the east of the church in the part of
the church known as the Choir; the monastic community’s presence in
the space is marked by the elaborately carved choir stalls even when the
monks themselves are absent. The lay congregation that come from outside the monastery to join in the monks’ worship are seated in the Nave,
the body of the church to the west.
It is in the context of this regular pattern of worship that a major lifeevent occurs. The ritual in which a monk makes his solemn profession2
is embedded in the community Mass (albeit a community Mass with a
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dramatically increased attendance, including the attendance of the natal family of the monk who is committing himself to life in the community). Following the Liturgy of the Word, which consists of readings
from scripture, and a homily preached by the Abbot, the candidate for
solemn profession advances towards the altar upon which the conventual
communion is celebrated daily. Upon this altar, he signs a form pledging
himself in perpetuity to monastic life and to the monastic community.
He then kisses the Abbot’s hand, demonstrating his familial obedience
to the father of the community. Next, he lies on a black funeral pall and
has his face, hands and feet covered. Cantors kneel at his feet as a litany
is chanted, and candles are lit at each corner of the pall. The monk to be
professed is surrounded by the symbolism of death; and the locus of this
symbolic death is at the heart of the Abbey Church, in the midst of the
daily worship. Following the chanting of the litany, the Abbot sprinkles
the candidate with holy water. The candidate is then dressed in a new
set of robes, which are also blessed with holy water. He is welcomed into
the community with the kiss of peace from his fellow monks. The hood
of his cowl is raised over his head and pinned in place, and following the
Mass, the monk begins three days of silent retreat in his private room
(sometimes referred to as a ‘cell’). Monks who offered accounts of this
process generally focussed on its symbolic resonance. As the novice master (the monk in charge of the spiritual formation of those entering the
monastery) summarised for me: “I am dying, I am being reborn ... three
days in the tomb like Christ in the tomb for three days”; another senior
monk explained, “I thought of it rather like Jonah in the belly of the whale
before being thrown up ... a lot of time to think, maybe to feel pretty sorry
for myself before finally putting myself into the hands of God”. Following
the retreat, the monk’s hood is lowered, and he returns to full life in the
community.
The solemn profession is the culmination of a gradual process; by the
time of his solemn profession, he has already spent time as a guest, as a
postulant (from the Latin postulare, to demand or request) seeking admission to the community and as a novice, all before making a temporary
profession for a period of at least three years.3 The monk has therefore
moved through different stages of incorporation within the community
before being admitted to solemn profession, after which he is bound to
the community perpetually.4 The monk has renounced his own property
and money, only using or spending that which the abbot gives him permission to use or spend from the monastery’s resources. The monk has
taken on a new name as well as new family ties and responsibilities.5
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In order to understand the particular importance of architecture to the
Benedictine vocation, it is important to outline the nature of the commitment that monks make during their profession. The monk commits
himself to stability – understood in the personal sense of persevering in
the monastic state, but also understood as a commitment to remain in a
particular community, to bind oneself to it, and not to wander from it.
As one monk explained, reflecting on his three-day silent retreat following solemn profession: “I remember this very strange dissonance, I kept
thinking ‘I want to go home’, and every time I was reminded, this realisation like a bell, ‘you are home’, and this continued ... and I was thinking
about lying on the funeral pall and reflecting that this is where I will die
... I’ll be buried in the cemetery out there. That’s what stability means.” In
making his profession, the monk also commits himself to obedience – he
promises to live by the Rule (in particular as it is understood through the
constitutions of the congregation) and under the governance of the abbot. This can be understood as filial obedience; the abbot is described as
the father of the community or of the family, the head of the household
(sometimes referred to by the Latin familia) who directs its activity and
takes responsibility for its welfare. As Nuzzo (1996: 874) notes, “this concept of father of the monks is directly parallel to the Roman concept of paterfamilias, where the senior male of the family was its ‘singular authority
figure’”. Finally, the monk commits himself to conversatio morum – this
resists easy translation,6 but the commitment was generally explained to
me as being a promise to live a monastic way of life. Christopher Jamison,
the Abbot of Worth, another monastery of the Congregation, provides a
useful working definition: “If you look up the word conversation in some
dictionaries, you find a clue to the meaning of conversatio. There you
discover that the first now obsolete meaning of conversation is living with
somebody ... So this Benedictine vow is a resolution to live with others,
specifically with other monks, and hence to live the monastic way of life”
(Jamison 2006: 116).
Taken together, what we see is a powerful commitment to becoming
part of a household. This lies at the heart of the monks’ understanding of
Benedictine identity, as was made clear in the opening talk given during a
retreat for young men considering their vocation: “The first and, I would
say, most important thing is that St Benedict is writing for cenobites, that
is, monks who wish to live in community, according to a rule, under an
Abbot ... so the Rule is not for the eremitic lifestyle of the desert monks
of the early Christian centuries, living in some kind of spiritual solitary
combat, but a cenobitic lifestyle, praying together, eating together, serv-
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Religious Architecture.indd 27
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ing one another”. A useful device, borrowed from the first chapter of St
Benedict’s Rule, was to contrast this ideal ‘cenobitic’ form with disordered
alternatives; for example, St Benedict criticises ‘gyrovagues’, or wandering monks who tramp from place to place. As was explained during the
vocations retreat, “the trouble with these gyrovagues was that they were
entirely self-interested and without the discipline which comes from the
support of a community”; by contrast, “the [Benedictine] community is
about monks living together, and coming closer to God through social
interaction in the monastery, not by shunning social interaction entirely”.
Space in which to gather
The architecture of the monastery should be understood first and foremost as architecture that facilitates this social interaction. The primary
locations in which the monks express their identity as a household are ritually and physically connected in the daily horarium. The monks’ rooms
in the west wing of the monastery are connected to the Abbey Church
(plate 1), so that the movement through the cloister is a transition from
their individual space to the space for collective prayer in response to the
tolling of the bell. The monks rise in the morning for Vigils at 6:00 a.m.,
making their way to the Abbey Church; they return to that space repeatedly throughout the day. “We are a human clock,” joked one of the monks
while being drawn away from the library where he had been engaged in
private study by the sound of the bell, and the workings of this clock are
acted out by the movements of the monks through the cloister. They are
called again to gather in the Abbey Church for Lauds at 7:10 a.m., community Mass at 8:35 a.m., midday prayer at 12:30 p.m., Vespers at 5:45 p.m.,
and Compline at 8:00 p.m., at the conclusion of which the Abbot blesses
the community, sprinkling them with holy water. The monks raise their
hoods and make their way back along the cloister to their rooms in the
west wing, where the summum silentium begins, and the monastery becomes a space marked by silence until the next morning.
In addition to gathering in the Abbey Church, the monks also gather together three times a day in the refectory to share food. Eating is connected
to the work of prayer, and this connection between the daily liturgy and
the meal is made visible as the monks make their way along the cloister,
moving from the Abbey Church to the refectory. Each meal follows a period of prayer and can be seen as a continuation of that prayer. Breakfast
follows Lauds, and lunch follows the Midday Office, while supper follows
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the half-hour period of private prayer after Vespers. The monastic refectory is a ritual space, which demonstrates the importance of commensality in the monks’ lives (Irvine 2011). As in the choir stalls, monks are
seated in a specific order reflecting their place in the community; novices
and juniors (monks in the early years of their membership of the community who have not yet made their solemn profession) are seated at one
table, and the rest of the community sits along the tables in the order in
which they received the habit, with the exception of the Abbot, the Prior
and the Sub-Prior, who are seated together at the end of the room. Prayers
are chanted before lunch and supper (at breakfast, the monks individually say grace in silence before eating). These prayers are intoned by the
hebdomadary, who is the monk appointed to intone prayers for that week
in the Abbey Church. The meal is served following a scripture reading for
the day, drawn from the Liturgy of the Word at the community Mass, and
then food is eaten in silence while the community listens to a reading from
a book chosen by the Abbot. We can see, then, that the refectory is a space
of silence and prayer used in ways that reflect the ritual arrangement of
the Abbey Church.
So within the architecture of the monastery, the different facets of
communal life feed into one another. At the heart of this connection is the
cloister, the passageway linking the different spaces used in the monks’
daily lives. The cloister is a core feature of Benedictine architecture,
reaching back to the design of medieval monasteries (although in the case
of Downside, in spite of the clear inspiration taken from medieval design,
their cloister falls short of the medieval prototype by only enclosing the
central garden on three sides; this is not the ideal four-sided yard entirely enclosed by monastic buildings). As Horn (1973: 13) explains, the
medieval cloister is a form that expresses a particular idealised pattern
of social life: aside from “those rare occasions” when he might be called
away from the monastery, “the monk spent his entire life in this enclosed
yard and its surrounding structures, which served as his living, eating,
working, and sleeping quarters”. Horn points to the Plan of St Gall – a
ninth-century manuscript prepared in the context of monastic reform
synods held in Aachen in 816 and 817 sketching out an ideal arrangement
of monastic buildings – as providing a prototypical answer to the crucial
question of how a monastery should be designed. What we see in that
plan is the much-replicated model of a cloister that connects the sleeping quarters and the refectory, surrounded by the various buildings and
gardens which provide the resources the monastery needs to function.
The ideal for which it stands is the containment of the monastic life cycle
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within a set of communal buildings – from the accommodation for novices newly entering the monastery through to the accommodation of the
sick, the monastery was a space in which people lived, worked, studied
and prayed, providing for their needs from the day they are admitted to
their monastery through to the day of their death.
Contemporary English Benedictine monasteries do not aspire to this
level of complete containment. According to the constitution of the congregation, with permission, monks may spend up to 30 nights in the year
away from the monastery, and many monks use this allowance to spend
time with their natal families. Monks also spend time away giving lectures
and talks, acting as spiritual directors or conducting community work as
priests in parishes beyond the boundaries of the monastery. Nevertheless,
the monastic architecture does exude a particular aspiration to stability.
As in the Plan of St Gall, the monastery buildings incorporate the religious life cycles of the monks; those in the early stages of their monastic
development – postulants, novices and juniors – have individual rooms
in the novitiate section of the monastic accommodation before moving on
to the west wing to live in rooms in the main living quarters with the rest
of the solemnly professed monks. The west wing of the monastery also
contains an infirmary, where sick and elderly monks live under the care of
the infirmarian, an official appointed from within the community specifically to care for those who are ill. The infirmary has its own direct link to
the Abbey Church, opening out into a gallery, enabling continued participation in the community’s ritual life. So the monk incorporates his own
life cycle into a monastic complex that is designed to be an enduring unit
over and beyond the lifetime of the individual. This endurance is made
visible in the monastic cemetery: the monks are buried in the grounds
of the monastery, where row after row of black, cast-iron crosses form
a massed community of the deceased. Even in death, the monks’ bodies
remain within the boundaries of the monastic household.
Stability and continuity
What we see, then, is a form of architecture that asserts stability. This assertion, I would suggest, is a work of contrast: as we saw above, it involves
the active rejection of the lifestyle of the ‘gyrovague’, who lacks commitment to place. The political significance of this contrast becomes clear
when we turn to the history of the English Benedictine congregation, in
which the right to stability is hard won.
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It is important to place the architecture of the monastery within the
context of the internal politics of the congregation as well as the wider
political landscape. The community inhabits buildings that are the product of a pivotal time in English Benedictine history. The west wing of
the monastery, containing the living quarters and calefactory7 (a kind of
common room with chairs and newspapers where the monks spend periods of recreation and gather together after supper), was built in phases
between 1872 and 1899, while work began on the Abbey Church itself in
1880. Around this time, the monks of the community were immersed in a
heated debate about the nature of English Benedictine identity (see Irvine
2010 for a detailed account of this debate).
The history of the English Benedictine congregation is intimately
linked with the mission for the re-conversion of England to Catholicism.8
Monastic life in England had come to an abrupt halt following the dissolution of the monasteries between 1536 and 1540 under the reign of
Henry viii. Yet English vocations to the Benedictine life continued, and
Englishmen entered monasteries on the European continent; it was under
these circumstances that English monks petitioned to be allowed to return to England, where the church had ceded from the authority of Rome,
so that they might minister as priests to their own people. Growing numbers entered monasteries on the continent in order to join this missionary
work, and the monastic community of St Gregory the Great, now resident
at Downside, was founded in Douai in 1606, then a notable centre for
Catholic exiles (Bossy 1975: 12-17), as a house from which to send monks
for the mission in England. The Papal Bull 9 Plantata, issued in 1633 by
Pope Urban viii, ratified the English Benedictines’ missionary mandate,
confirming that the monks should, when making their profession, take a
‘Missionary Oath’ through which they solemnly accepted the President of
the Congregation as having the sole authority to transfer them to or from
the mission.
The community remained on the continent until policies suppressing
monastic orders in France, as well as the French Revolution and the French
revolutionary government’s declaration of war against Britain, made it
unsustainable to continue Benedictine life there. Forced to leave Douai
in 1794, the community based themselves temporarily in Acton Burnell,
Shropshire, before settling at their current site in 1814. But even though
the community had relocated to England, the missionary commitment remained, with the majority of monks called to leave the monastery shortly
after they had been ordained as priests, spending the rest of their lives
away from the monastery running parishes. The late nineteenth century
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saw the emergence of a vociferous movement to reform English Benedictine monasticism, calling for a shift in emphasis from the mission to the
cloister. These reformers emphasised stability as an essential condition
for Benedictine life. Aidan Gasquet, the head of the community between
1878 and 1885, stated that stability “is the key to the spirit of monasticism
as interpreted in [St Benedict’s] Rule, for by it the monastery is erected
into a family, to which the monk binds himself forever” (Gasquet 1896:
xiv).10 To enter a Benedictine monastery is to become part of a corporate
body and to share in all aspects of life with that body, “acting only through
it, sharing in all the joys and sorrows of its members, giving and receiving
that help, comfort and strength which come from mutual counsel” (1896:
xii). Similarly, Edmund Ford, the head of the community from 1894 to
1906, wrote in a sketch of the Benedictine vocation that “the normal life
of Benedictines is the life of many living together, not for the sake of doing any particular work, but that they may carry out as far as possible the
full teaching of Christ on the perfection of social life”. For these reformers, the ideal was that “the monks ... are bound together by ties which are
particularly close. They are truly said to form a family”. It was under the
leadership of these monastic reformers that work began on the monastic
architecture that the community inhabits today.
So if the monastery buildings assert stability against the life of the gyrovague, they do so as an active statement about the kind of monastic
life the community was seeking at this juncture in its history. The buildings express the aspirations of a group that wanted to build a home: living, working, growing through social interaction and ultimately dying as
members of a family.
One of the most important ways in which such aspirations were justified was by way of an appeal to the past – the life of the Benedictine
monk in England should demonstrate a continuity with the lives of medieval English monks. The significance of this historical connection is
made clear in the words of Laurence Shepherd, a monk who gave a series
of retreat talks for the Downside community in 1882. We know from contemporary records that his words had a substantial impact on the views of
the younger monks especially.11 Shepherd’s words are saturated in the rich
history of English monasticism, “the ten hundred years history of glory
in England” prior to the Reformation.12 He evokes the tremendous learning, the hospitality and above all the solemn celebration of the liturgy of
the medieval monks. He looks around him, and finding the community
at Downside “engaged in the grand work of Building a House to God”,13 he
envisions the building work as a restoration of the spirit and place of mo-
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nasticism in England. “If I have talked too much as tho’ I were dreaming,
dreaming that St. Gregory’s of Downside was getting turned gradually
into Glastonbury, it is pardonable.”14
The idea of ‘rebuilding Glastonbury’ is a potent one. Aidan Gasquet,
under whose leadership the construction of the new church at Downside
began, had also written about Glastonbury Abbey as a symbol of England’s monastic heritage (Gasquet 1895). Glastonbury connected the history of monasticism to the thread of British history. It was the resting
place not only of King Edmund i and King Edmund ii but also, according
to legend, the burial site of King Arthur. Famously, Glastonbury was said
to have been visited by Joseph of Arimathea, the man who had taken Jesus
down from the cross and entombed him. For Gasquet, these legends did
not need to be verifiable in order to be significant – they simply stood as a
clear indication of the link in the popular imagination between monastic
life and England’s history as a Christian country. “Here, and here alone
on English soil,” he wrote, “we are linked not only to the beginnings of
English Christianity, but to the beginnings of Christianity itself ” (Gasquet
1895: 4). With the dissolution of the Abbey in 1539 and the subsequent
execution of Richard Whiting, its last abbot, for treason, this link was all
but severed.
Against the backdrop of this historical rupture, it is little surprise that
monks come to appear as something alien. This is a context, after all, in
which Catholicism itself was treated with a great deal of suspicion and
even hostility (Ralls 1974; Paz 1992). Catholics, it was claimed, owed their
allegiance to a foreign power. In the mid-nineteenth century, the sermons
of Cardinal Wiseman,15 in which he expressed admiration for those condemned as treasonous in this world and crowned as martyrs in the next,
were used as evidence by the Conservative Member of Parliament Charles
Newdegate, who argued that the Catholic hierarchy was a threat to the security of the state (Arnstein 1982: 168-170). Newdegate was hardly unique
in holding this view. An established church (as existed, and still exists, in
the form of the Church of England) renders religious authority subject to
the authority of the state. Loyalty to Rome could therefore all too easily be
construed as disloyalty to Queen and Country. How can one simultaneously claim to be ‘Catholic’ and ‘British’?
As for monasteries, we can see the particularly acute suspicion in which
religious and monastic orders were held at this time. The view of celibacy
and enclosure as unnatural forms of asceticism fuelled a growing literature detailing imagined acts of depravity within the cloister. Ingram (1991:
783) details the “professional leisure industry” which satisfied the public
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appetite “for stories about the misbehaviour of the Catholic priest and his
lascivious practices in confessional and convent ... a great torrent of public performers in the character of ‘escaped nuns’ and ‘reformed priests’
toured the British Isles lecturing to delightedly shocked audiences with
accounts of their own ‘personal experiences’”. The portrayal of monasteries as sinister presences in the English landscape is exemplified by false
allegations against the Cistercian Abbey of Mount St Bernard, Leicestershire, after a man named William Thomas Jeffreys claimed to have been
held at the monastery against his will; his claims of captivity, detailing
the cruelty of the monks, were published in 1849 in a pamphlet titled A
Narrative of Six Years’ Captivity and Suffering among the Monks of Saint
Bernard, in the Monastery at Charnwood Forest, Leicestershire. The angry
reaction of locals, who threatened to blow up the monastery, shows the
clear potential of such tales to inflame tensions and prejudices (Paz 1992:
122). At the heart of such suspicions are claims that monasteries were
‘Popish prisons’, essentially foreign and forever incompatible with English
values.
‘Rebuilding Glastonbury’ in this context is to make a claim on continuity in place of rupture. When envisioned as a restoration of past glories
rather than some kind of foreign imposition, the architecture becomes a
way of asserting the Englishness of Benedictine monasticism. This helps
us to understand why the monastery buildings designed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the Abbey Church in particular,
are so clearly evocative of the past. In the words of one of the monks
who published an architectural history of the Abbey: “It is not a medieval
church ... And yet to the perceptive stranger visiting it to-day, there is
no doubt that it possesses the atmosphere of a medieval church” (James
1961: 6). The architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner, who chronicled the
buildings of England in his massive multi-volume project The Buildings of
England, concurred: “If ever there was excuse for building in period forms
in the C20, it is here ... The whole of the abbey church has become the
most splendid demonstration of the renaissance of Roman Catholicism in
England” (Pevsner 1958: 71).
The first plan, drawn by Archibald Dunn and Edward Hansom in the
1870s, in fact drew heavily on the gothic architecture of French cathedrals, especially Amiens, which Dunn had studied (James 1961: 10). The
drawings prepared by Dunn and Hansom, complete with processions of
tonsured monks, demonstrate the medievalist imagination at work (plate
2). Yet of this plan, only the mid-part of the church was completed, in addition to the ambulatory (that is, the walkway around the envisaged east
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end of the church) and the side chapels radiating from the ambulatory.
After Dunn’s death, the decision was made to entrust the building work
to Thomas Garner, who drew his own new plans for the church. Garner
envisaged a square east end, which he felt was far more in keeping with
the architecture of English medieval churches (ibid: 47); his design was
largely based on the Perpendicular Gothic style of English churches in
the fifteenth century (ibid: 42). The building work was continued by Giles
Gilbert Scott in 1925, who blended his own work with Garner’s scheme,
following its proportions. However, the west end of the church was not
completed, as the community could not decide whether they wished to
extend the nave of the church further and so opted to build a ‘temporary’
plain west wall so as to delay the decision (ibid: 75-76). This wall still
stands.
The intention throughout these phases was to build “a Downside which
should vie with great pre-Reformation abbeys in dignity and magnificence” (ibid: 72). The building material used for the Abbey Church – Bath
stone, an oolitic limestone – evokes the architecture of nearby Bath Abbey, built with materials from the same quarry, and the interior is full
of reminders of England’s monastic heritage. The vaulting of one of the
largest side chapels, dedicated to St Benedict, is bossed with the arms
of major English Benedictine monasteries prior to their dissolution. The
choir stalls to which the monks return throughout the day for the cycle of
liturgical prayer are reproductions of the choir stalls at Chester Cathedral,
itself a former Benedictine Abbey, while the altar around which the community celebrates Mass is built out of stone taken from Glastonbury Abbey. The monks therefore surround themselves with points of connection
to the monasticism of a past age.
What we see is a tremendous effort to bring the past into the present;
the architecture not only connects the monastery with pre-Reformation
forms but also serves as a demonstration of their continuing vitality. One
of the most imposing demonstrations of the Abbey’s claim to continuity
is its tower, completed in 1938 based on a design by Giles Gilbert Scott.
The design of the tower is deliberately imitative of the pre-Reformation
church towers of the county. The ‘Somerset Tower’ is a recognisable style
that consists in its simplest form of a buttressed square tower, topped
with a parapet and pinnacles at each corner (Wright 1981). Church architecture throughout the county between the fourteenth and sixteenth
centuries shows the development and elaboration of this theme. Scott, in
completing the tower of the Abbey, crowned it with pinnacles and placed
it firmly within this tradition. Indeed, one member of the community has
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published a pamphlet taking the reader on “a journey around the ornate
parish church towers of the Somerset Mendip hills” (Lambert 1997), in
which the tower at Downside is presented as a continuation of the county’s indigenous style of architecture. So the tower is integrated within a
Somerset skyline, a sign of the continuity of Catholicism within the English landscape.
Counterfactual architecture
What is being proclaimed here is survival. In fact, we might even consider
the architecture of the monastery as an exercise in counterfactual history.
It poses a set of provocative “What if?” questions: What if Henry viii
had not dissolved the English monasteries? What if the Reformation had
never happened?
The use of architecture to present contrasting sets of values was an
important motivation in the Gothic Revival movement of nineteenthcentury England. Augustus Welby Pugin (1812-1852), whose extensive
advocacy of the Gothic style was particularly influential in ensuring its
revival16 (Lang 1966), presented architecture as a visible manifestation of
truth and error. In the context of his own conversion to Catholicism in
1835, this becomes a way of demonstrating the wrong turning that English
society had taken following the Reformation. His famous work Contrasts;
or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day; Showing the Present
Decay of Taste is an illustrated polemic that attempts to demonstrate the
moral superiority of Gothic forms. The message of his work is clear: “on
the eve of the great change of religion, we find Architecture in a high
state of perfection, both as regards design and execution” (Pugin 1841a:
5), but from then on, the story is one of catastrophic decline. We read of
suppression, spoilation and desecration, avarice and greed, and the loss
of religious unity and pious feelings; for Pugin, these were the primary
social effects of the Reformation. This moral decline, suggests Pugin, is
clearly evident in the degeneration of architecture, and he sets out to
prove this through a series of illustrations contrasting pre-Reformation
and nineteenth-century architecture. Parochial churches, chapels, altar
screens and memorials are all catalogued in ways that seek to elevate the
beauty of the old forms and the ugliness, banality and incongruity of the
new forms. Pugin does not restrict his contrasts to aesthetic comparisons; that he is presenting social commentary is made clear by his con-
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trasts of pre-and post-Reformation cities (the latter filled with factories,
workhouses, a lunatic asylum and a ‘socialist hall of science’). Monasteries are presented as crucial to the pre-Reformation order: “It would
be an endless theme to dilate on all the advantages accruing from these
splendid establishments; suffice it to observe, that it was through their
boundless charity and hospitality that the poor were entirely maintained.
They formed alike the places for the instruction of youth, and the quiet
retreat of a mature age; and the vast results that the monastic bodies
have produced, in all classes of art and science, show the excellent use
they made of that time which was not consecrated to devotion and the
immediate duties of their orders” (ibid: 7). The failings of the current
age are illustrated by drawings contrasting the care for the poor provided in a monastery with the nineteenth-century workhouse, complete
with chained inmates, a watchtower in the style of Bentham’s panopticon
and the ominous notice: “a variety of subjects always ready for medical
students”.
The counterfactual potential of English Benedictine architecture is
that it invites us to imagine an England in which the rupture of dissolution and Reformation had not taken place. Hobsbawm (1983), in developing the concept of the “invention of tradition”, has recognised the role of
architecture in appealing to traditional authority by way of “establishing
continuity with a suitable historical past. A striking example is the deliberate choice of a Gothic style for the nineteenth-century rebuilding
of the British parliament [partly designed by A.W. Pugin] and the equally deliberate decision after World War ii to rebuild the parliamentary
chamber on exactly the same basic plan as before” (1983: 1-2). The use
of antiquarian forms in architecture can root an institution in history,
offering legitimation of authority by directing attention away from the
present moment and into the past. In a different context, Bloch (1968,
1986) has shown how ritual structures are able to give the impression of
transcending the present. The tombs of the Merina in Madagascar have
walls of stone and cement, with the top “usually capped by a huge stone
slab covered in concrete” (Bloch 1968: 100) and are often brightly painted and decorated. Bloch argues that they “demonstrate in material form
the victory over time and also over movement. Tombs are emphatically
placed in a particular highly significant place and they are there for ever”
(1986: 169). In doing so, they give material form to an ideology of descent
which “remains still amidst the vicissitudes of time”, legitimating the authority of the ancestors over the present life and its activities by creating
the impression of “a group which is unaffected by day to day events and
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which continues to exist as generations come and go” (1968: 100). In the
context I have been describing here, to infer continuity is certainly to
suggest that Benedictine monasticism endures while generations come
and go; but by suggesting that buildings might be treated as ‘counterfactual’, what I am saying is that the architecture invites contrast between
an enduring traditional order and the present world. Pugin (1841) ends
his Contrasts with an illustration of the architecture of the nineteenth
century placed in a balance and weighed against the architecture that
preceded the Reformation. Surrounding the illustration is an inscription
of words from scripture (Daniel 5: 27): “They are weighed in the balance
and found wanting”. Taking my cue from this, what I am arguing here is
that counterfactual architecture such as that of the monastery is a way of
presenting a different set of historical values, to be weighed against the
values of the surrounding world.
The power of monasteries to evoke an order that contrasts itself with
the ‘vicissitudes of time’ has been remarked upon by scholars such as
Mumford (1934), who saw medieval monasticism as a driving force in medieval technological and economic development. He argued “that presence of order” (1934: 12) in the monastery stood “opposed to the erratic
fluctuations and pulsations of the worldly life” (ibid: 13). For Mumford,
this presence of order emerges from the coordination of activity that
comes from the daily rhythm of the horarium: “one is not straining the
facts when one suggests that the monasteries ... helped to give human enterprise the regular collective beat and rhythm of the machine” (ibid: 1314). This association between monasteries and time discipline has proved
influential; see, for example, Zerubavel’s description of the strong sense of
mechanical solidarity that emerges through the coordination of times for
prayer, meals, work and so on (1980).17
The significance of coordination in the monastery is not lost on the
monks. To repeat the joking I quoted earlier, “We are a human clock”; but
what might this mean? Throughout my fieldwork, the sense conveyed
to me about the monastic liturgy was that it was about moving beyond
subjective experience. This comes through most clearly in a conversation with the monastic choirmaster, where we had been discussing the
development of the liturgy in the past 50 years. He was particularly keen
to stress the importance of collectivity in shaping liturgical reforms. We
had been talking about attempts to ensure that the Divine Office was a
vehicle for collective experience, such as choosing hymns that address
prayer to God in the first person plural, when he explained: “You might
have your own concerns which you have been struggling with in private
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prayer, but when you are called to prayer in the Office, these concerns are
subsumed, in a way they are objectified, you have your subjective concerns in life but the business of the Divine Office is not your concerns,
not your business but the business, the prayer of everyone, of the whole
church as a unity”. Such an approach is reinforced by the way in which
the psalms are understood. Although the psalms as texts are reflective of
the mind of a particular individual praying to God (some psalms might
deal with despair, some with joy, and so on), the practice of chanting
psalms is said to be objective in that you are not chanting psalms that are
reflective of your own personal state of mind. Rather, the psalms follow
a set order over a two-week cycle in which the whole psalter is recited.
One monk who entered the monastery in the 1990s and often serves as
a cantor explained that when chanting the psalms, he imagines himself
to be joining those people who are experiencing the emotional states set
out in the psalm, even (or, he suggests, especially) if he finds himself in a
very different state of mind. “The psalms are the prayers of an individual,
so of course they are ideal as the prayers of individuals. But we’re not
chanting them individually ... and we don’t necessarily share the mindset
of the psalmist.” The monk chants these words with the understanding
that they are the common prayer of the church, and in doing so “we stand
alongside and represent those in that state of mind, we stand alongside
them in Christ”.
This movement of the individual beyond himself is well illustrated by
the practice of statio before Vespers: the monks assemble in the cloister as
the bell rings, they stand in line along the walls like statues in niches with
their hoods up and heads bowed in a moment of collection before being
called to process into the Church for the act of prayer. The guestmaster,
describing statio to me, referred to it as a “gathering”, both in the sense
that it was a collective gathering of the monks together before the procession, and in the sense that it gave individuals an opportunity to gather
their thoughts. The gathering and focus on the task ahead is part of the
process through which the monk is removed from his personal circumstance. He is removed from his immediate concerns and activities and
called to the Abbey Church, responding not to his individual desires but
to the call to prayer ringing out from the Abbey tower. As another of the
senior monks in the community explained to me, “When the bell rings, I
could be peeing or trying to write a poem or anything and I have to think,
I’ve got to finish and get to the church ... The bell marks the limits of individual creativity”. The monastic horarium takes the daily flow of time
and places it in relation not to personal desires but to the worship of God
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by all the church. The individual joins himself with the rest of the community in common prayer. In this sense, the bell ringing out the ‘hours’
can be seen as constitutive of a consciousness that the individual is part
of a community in prayer.
As was explained in a talk during an April 2006 retreat for young men
considering their vocations:
The most powerful thing ... is the idea that you are praying the same
prayer as so many other people. And you will come in at the same time
next day, and the next day, and next week you will say the same prayers.
Sounds tedious, no? Well, you know what they say, the fi rst 50 years are
the hardest ... But no, really, it’s not tedious when you think about it as
something shared by everyone, if you imagine that at that moment in
time you are joined in prayer with people the whole world over, and
that you are doing what monks and other faithful have done for generations.
What is being described here is a powerful sense of simultaneity (Anderson 1983) – a sense of coordination that links the monks with a much
wider ‘imagined community’ that is sharing in their prayers. Interestingly,
Anderson contrasts the simultaneity of the modern world with the simultaneity of the ‘medieval Christian mind’, which he sees as linking “past and
future in an instantaneous present” (1983: 24). And indeed, what is being
described above is a simultaneity that links past and future through an
image of the enduring stability of the horarium. Is this really a contemporary manifestation of a medieval mind? Once again, we return to the
powerful claim of survival, demonstrated in the counterfactual architecture of the monastery. But more than that, what I feel is being contrasted
here are two ways of viewing time. Anderson points to a modern sense of
simultaneity in which people can imagine a community living in a shared
present – but the architecture of the monastery poses a “What if?” question through which people can imagine themselves as part of an enduring
unit that stretches through time and links the past, the present and the
future. This is the enduring unit that is emphasised through the monks’
emphasis on stability and through the architecture that makes this stability possible.
Augé (1995) has recently turned his anthropologist’s eye to the forms
of architecture that frame our contemporary world of global movement
and fleeting interaction.
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A world where people are born in the clinic and die in the hospital,
where transit points and temporary abodes are proliferating under
luxurious or inhuman conditions (hotel chains and squats, holiday
clubs and refugee camps, shanty towns threatened with demolition
or doomed to festering longevity); where a dense network of means of
transport which are also inhabited spaces is developing ... a world thus
surrendered to solitary individuality, to the fleeting, the temporary and
ephemeral, offers the anthropologist (and others) a new object. (1995:
78).
It is in this context that the counterfactual architecture of the monastery
comes into its own; a “What if?” question that challenges the proliferation
of non-places with its insistence on household, stability and place. As one
of the monks, a teacher in the school run by the monastery, explained to
me, “I think what we demonstrate is the value of staying put. Modern society is so full of people rushing from one place to the next, one job to the
next, even one family to the next. But we’re able to stay put, and I think
there’s something that’s attractive about that because so many people are
rootless.” Here, he reflects the message offered by a 1970s commission of
monks and nuns from throughout the English Benedictine congregation,
who emphasised what they saw as the ‘witness value’ of stability:
Through the vow of stability Benedictines bear witness, in a torn and
individualistic world, to Christian unity which knows how to overcome
barriers. To live in community is to make the approach to Christ more
clearly visible ... In an unstable world where life is characterized by
mobility and fragmentation, a Benedictine community can be a centre where life is deeply experienced and where others come not only to
share in silence and prayer, but also to discuss the social realities of the
present time ... Stable monastic life confronts the fleeting character of
human experience, so evident today, and seeks an understanding of the
meaning of life itself. (Rees et al. 1978: 142-143)
As we saw above, stability is placed in contrast to the life of the gyrovague.
An architecture that demonstrates the importance of place invites a contrast with the world around it. In this context, the deliberately constructed medievalism of the monastery is not simply an architectural anachronism, it is a fixed point in the English landscape that invites comparison.
It shows a possibility of what could be.
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Notes













The bell is named as a memorial to Bede Vaughan (-), a monk of the
community who was appointed Archbishop of Sydney.
See also Yeo (: -) for an account of solemn profession in the English Benedictine Congregation from a historical and legal perspective.
The period of temporary profession may be extended by the Abbot beyond
three years, but according to the constitution of the English Benedictine
Congregation it should not last for longer than nine years.
Solemnly professed monks may, however, petition the Holy See to seek a release from their vows.
See Qirko (), who argues that institutions such as monasteries encourage
the manipulation of kin cues – although it is important to note that English
Benedictine monks do not cut off ties with natal kin when becoming part of
the monastic household.
This has sometimes been rendered simply as ‘conversion’ (see Rees et al
: - for an English Benedictine perspective based on this understanding), meaning that the monk commits himself to the work of reforming
himself, renouncing sin and accepting new values of monastic life; however,
this straightforward translation has traditionally been challenged in the
English Benedictine context by Butler (: ) and his explanation that if
we look at Chapter  in the earliest manuscripts of the Rule, the term used
is conversatio and not conversio, and that conversatio here means “either
the personal manner of life of the monk, or the manner of life of the community”.
From the Latin calefacere, to warm; the name is retained from the name traditionally given in Benedictine monasteries to the room with the fire where
the monks would have gone to warm themselves.
See Green () for a concise account of the history of the Congregation,
and see Lunn () for an account of its origins and early centuries.
A Papal Bull is an official decree issued by the Pope.
It has been noted, for example, by Knowles (: ), that other monks of
the community were involved in the composition of Gasquet’s words here; so it
probably makes sense to treat them as the expression of a philosophy of a group
of like-minded reformers rather than as the ideas of a particular individual.
See Cuthbert Butler, The Downside Movement, -. Manuscript held in
Downside Abbey archives.
Laurence Shepherd, Notes of the Retreat given at Downside , . Manuscript held in Stanbrook Abbey archives.
Shepherd, Notes of the Retreat given at Downside , .

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 Ibid., .
 Appointed first Catholic Archbishop of Westminster in  following the
restoration of the Catholic hierarchy in England and Wales.
 A.W. Pugin had, in fact, been commissioned to draw plans for monastic
buildings at Downside, and he made several drawings for this work between
 and  (O’Donnell ). However, a lack of funds meant that it was
only later in the century that building work could begin on a new church and
monastery complex, by which time new plans had been drawn up by Dunn
and Hansom.
 Mumford and Zerubavel are perhaps guilty of overstating the role of abstract
time reckoning as a source of coordination in the Rule of St Benedict. Dohrnvan Rossum (: ), for example, argues that Mumford’s mechanistic image is ‘erroneous’, pointing out that ‘the required punctuality was not related
to abstract points in time, but to points in the sequence of the rhythm of collective conduct’ – in other words, that monastic time-keeping in the Rule and
the centuries afterward was not rigid and depersonalised. While this point is
important for an understanding of Benedictine history, I believe that Mumford and Zerubavel’s approach to punctuality remains helpful for our understanding of contemporary monastic experience; whatever the time-keeping
basis of monks at the time of the Rule, Downside’s reading of the Rule is
shaped by a more recent imagination. If the monastic horarium of the sixth
century is understood and restored through the lens of the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries, then it should be no surprise that monastic
timetabling is infused with a mechanised time-discipline.
References
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Arnstein, Walter L. (1982) Protestant versus Catholic in Mid-Victorian
England: Mr. Newdegate and the Nuns. Columbia: University of Missouri Press.
Augé, Marc (1995) Non-places: Introduction to an anthropology of supermodernity, trans. John Howe. London: Verso.
Bloch, Maurice (1968) “Tombs and conservatism among the Merina of
Madagascar”, Man, New Series 3 (1): 94-104.
Bloch, Maurice (1986) From blessing to violence: History and ideology
in the circumcision ritual of the Merina of Madagascar. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
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Bossy, John (1975) The English Catholic Community, 1570-1850. London:
Darton, Longman and Todd.
Butler, Edward Cuthbert (1919) Benedictine Monachism: Studies in Benedictine life and rule. London: Longmans, Green and Co.
Dohrn-van Rossum, Gerhard (1996) History of the Hour: Clocks and Modern Temporal Orders, trans. Thomas Dunlap. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
Gasquet, Francis Aidan (1895) The Last Abbot of Glastonbury and His
Companions: An Historical Sketch. London: S. Marshall, Hamilton,
Kent and Co.
Gasquet, Francis Aidan (1896) “Sketch of Monastic Constitutional History”, Introduction to The Monks of the West from St. Benedict to St.
Bernard by Charles Forbes, comte de Montalembert. London: J.C.
Nimmo.
Green, Bernard (1980) The English Benedictine Congregation: A Short History. London: Catholic Truth Society.
Horn, Walter (1973) “On the Origins of the Medieval Cloister”, Gesta 12
(1/2): 13-52.
Ingram, Philip (1991) “Protestant patriarchy and the Catholic priesthood
in nineteenth-century England”, Journal of Social History 24 (4): 783797.
Irvine, Richard D.G. (2010) “The mission and the cloister: identity, tradition, and transformation in the English Benedictine Congregation”,
Saeculum 60 (2): 289-306.
— (2011) “Eating in silence in an English Benedictine monastery”, in Food
and Faith in Christian Culture ed. Trudy Eden and Kenneth Albala,
221-237. New York: Columbia University Press.
James, Augustine (1961) The Story of Downside Abbey Church. Strattonon-the-Fosse, Somerset: Downside Abbey Press.
Jamison, Christopher (2006) Finding Sanctuary: Monastic Steps for Everyday Life. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson.
Knowles, David (1963) The Historian and Character and other essays.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Lambert, Ambrose (1997) Mendip: A journey around the Ornate Parish
Church Towers of the Somerset Mendip Hills. Radstock: Fosseway
Press.
Lang, S. (1966) The Principles of the Gothic Revival in England, Journal of
the Society of Architectural Historians 25 (4): 240-267.
Lunn, David (1980) The English Benedictines, 1540-1688: From Reformation to Revolution. London: Burns and Oates.
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Mumford, Lewis (1934) Technics and Civilization. New York: Harcourt
Brace Jovanovich.
Nuzzo, James L.J. (1996) “The Rule of Saint Benedict: The debates over
the interpretation of an ancient legal and spiritual document”, Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy 20 (3): 867-886.
O’Donnell, Roderick (1981) “Pugin Designs for Downside Abbey”, The
Burlington Magazine 123 (937): 230-233.
Paz, Denis G. (1992) Popular Anti-Catholicism in Mid-Victorian England.
Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Pevsner, Nikolaus (1958) The Buildings of England: North Somerset and
Bristol. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Pugin, Augustus Welby (1841) Contrasts: or, A Parallel Between the Noble
Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and similar Buildings of the Present Day; showing the Present Decay of Taste, second
revised and expanded edition. London: Charles Dolman.
Qirko, Hector (2004) “Altruistic celibacy, kin-cue manipulation, and the
development of religious institutions”, Zygon 39 (3): 681-706.
Ralls, Walter (1974) “The Papal Aggression of 1850: A Study in Victorian
Anti-Catholicism”, Church History 43 (2): 242-246.
Rees, Daniel and others (1978) Consider Your Call: A Theology of Monastic
Life Today. London: spck.
Wright, Peter Poyntz (1981) The Parish Church Towers of Somerset: Their
construction, craftsmanship and chronology. Amersham: Avebury.
Yeo, Richard (1982) The Structure and Content of Monastic Profession: A
juridical study, with particular regard to the practice of the English
Benedictine Congregation since the French Revolution. Rome: Pontificio Ateneo S. Anselmo.
Zerubavel, Eviatar (1980) “The Benedictine Ethic and the Modern Spirit
of Scheduling: On Schedules and Social Organization”, Sociological
Enquiry 50 (2): 157-169.
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26-08-13 20:32:54
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The Biggest Mosque in Europe!
A Symmetrical Anthropology of Islamic Architecture in
Rotterdam
Pooyan Tamimi Arab
The new Essalam Mosque of Rotterdam, often said to be “the biggest
mosque of Europe”, opened in December 2010 after more than a decade
of conflict and controversy. The building was realised thanks to the financial backing of the Al Maktoum Foundation based in the United Arab
Emirates. Together with the mayor, the sponsor representatives and local media, former “guest workers” – now Dutch citizens – marched from
the original mosque to the new building in the same neighbourhood. The
difference was striking: the former structure was small, poorly lit, with a
very limited space for ablution and prayer, and only a small sign made it
recognisable, whereas the new building was a purpose-built mosque, had
two minarets and a dome, several floors, and windows on all sides so that
the new carpets were bathed in light.
The Essalam Mosque’s community consists mainly of Dutch-Moroccan
elderly men, their sons and grandsons. The mosque is used to a lesser
extent by women but also for example by local Somalian Muslims and
international visitors from countries such as Egypt and Malaysia. Islam
in the Netherlands has grown primarily as a result of migrations after
the Second World War. The guest workers who first settled in cities such
as Rotterdam “became” Muslims – that is to say, their Muslim identities
were brought to the fore with greater emphasis when it dawned on them
and their Dutch hosts that they and their children would stay. In the past
decades, the desire for cultural and religious recognition has become
more important and remains pertinent today. “Wij blijven hier” (“We are
staying here”) is the title of a popular blog of young Dutch Muslims, created half a century after the first guest workers arrived. The blog’s statement of purpose shows that decades of debates on recognition have not
resolved the issue: “We [Dutch Muslims] are staying here! Because we are
born here or raised here. Because this is our country and we enjoy living
here and would like to keep it that way.”1
In contemporary Rotterdam, Islam impacts citizens’ feelings about
their “right to the city” (Harvey 2008) and their right to change them-
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selves by changing the city landscape and constructing houses of worship.
Especially since the 1990s, Western Muslims have moved interior Islamic
aesthetics to the exterior. As Joycelyne Cesari has concluded for European
cities in general, Islam has gone from “being invisible” to “being unwanted” (Cesari 2005: 1018). The experience of not being wanted in its turn reinvigorates Muslim demands for cultural and religious recognition. In the
Dutch context, the competing demands for recognition and integration
have not and cannot be easily transcended because they are based on the
everyday feelings of being wanted or not wanted. Mosque architecture,
a spatial and material medium par excellence, plays an important role in
these dialectics. In other words, the Dutch “politics of home” (Duyvendak
2011) are very much a matter of “aesthetic formations” (Meyer 2009). The
where, what and who of home-making are not answered merely by speaking words but by tactile, aural and – in the case of architecture – visual
speech.
In this chapter, I discuss the genre of the so-called “megamosque”
in Europe. The script follows recurring themes in Western European
countries. I first focus on the hype around the size of Rotterdam’s Essalam Mosque. I have been following the construction of the Essalam
Mosque passively for years and actively since it opened during my
fieldwork in Dutch mosques from 2010 to 2012. Particularly helpful
for discussing the ways in which the size of the mosque is interpreted by various groups was a documentary that I used as ethnographic
data about the construction of the mosque. Hoger dan de Kuip (Higher
than the Kuip) was screened several times on national television. The
title captures the complaint of residents and at least one politician who
said that the minarets are too provocative because they are higher than
the nearby football stadium of Feyenoord Football Club nicknamed the
Kuip.
After describing the megamosque genre, I link my observations theoretically to Bruno Latour’s analysis of fetishised objects (Latour 2010).
Latour blurs the boundaries between the socially constructed fetish and
mind-independent, often physical, facts. I suggest that the megamosque
genre should be understood as a play between “factishes”, a mixture of fetishes and facts. The idea of the “factish” arises from Latour’s method of a
“symmetrical anthropology”, which collapses the distinction between the
realms of the social and the physical.

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The megamosque genre
Plans to build a central mosque for Rotterdam were already made in the
1980s. On a 1987 drawing that announced “a mosque in the neighbourhood” (een moskee in de wijk), a huge Ottoman mosque in the style of
Sinan’s Selimiye Mosque is depicted as dominating the Dutch streets
(Maussen 2009: 198). Twenty-five years later, the image of an alien “megamosque” that will dominate and take over a cityscape continues to
haunt the European imagination. A conversation of two Dutch-Antillean residents in Rotterdam-South gives an impression of how the megamosque genre has – thanks to years of “megamosqueing” – played out in
Rotterdam:
I love this neighbourhood. Really! Now it’s just dead, dead, dead. It looks
like you step into another culture. I step out my door, I’m in another
country.
What do you mean? Aren’t their two churches close to that square as
well? What’s the difference?
That mosque is big, very big. Do you get what I mean? The biggest in
Europe!
But what’s so threatening then?
It’s the vision that I see. It’s not a threat. I step outside my door, I step
into another world ... that mosque there, bling bling. (From Hoger dan
de Kuip)
These imaginations exist in countries such as the uk, Germany, Italy,
France and most notoriously Switzerland, where minaret construction
has been banned as of 2009. Dutch anxiety about the “biggest mosque
in Europe” in one’s own local environment should be understood in the
broader Western European context of mosque construction such as the
new Cologne Central Mosque and the Marseille Grand Mosque. In all of
these cases, size has been emphasised as a major obstacle and a provocation, and the buildings are often described as the “largest” of Europe, of
the country or simply as “bigger than x”. The genre of the megamosque
is a transnational one. If one googles “biggest mosque Europe”, one finds
several results from different countries.
For instance, the Abbey Mills Islamic Centre in London was never built
and was only a conceptual proposition but attracted strong responses especially after 7/7, the 2005 terrorist attacks in London. Even before the
bombings, however, the Prime Minister’s Office received an e-petition,
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its largest ever, with over 280,000 signatures against the idea of a mosque
“bigger than St. Paul’s” (Jaeckle & Türetken 2011). In Venice and surrounding areas, especially Mestre, the number of Muslims has increased
since the 1990s. In a city where almost every building is a monument, this
has brought forth the very sensitive question of whether it would be possible to have a mosque in Venice. Wael Farhat, a local Muslim architect,
told me that “Venice must have a mosque, because the Muslims are here
as well”. For now, he has only pleaded for a symbolic floating mosque, an
art project that he likes to call the “Jesus Mosque” because “it, too, walks
on water”.2 A poster advertising an event organised by architects to debate
mosque architecture in Venice resulted in a furious reaction: “No, no, no,
no, again, no!” was marked on the image, on which an enormous mosque
overshadows the Doge palace. Just like the case of the Abbey Mills Islamic
Centre, no actual plans or funds for a constructed mosque in Venice exist,
but the image or very idea is experienced as jarring.
The Mosque of Rome often features in debates on European mosques
because of its modern design by star architect Portoghesi. On a visit, the
local Muslim janitor told me, without my asking, that it was the “biggest
mosque in Europe”. The mosque’s Wikipedia page claims that over 12,000
people can be accommodated for prayer. According to the janitor, however, no more than 2,000 people visit the mosque on the busiest days, and
the prayer space, though impressive, cannot contain many more people
than that. The gated mosque is located far outside the city in a quiet green
environment that can only be accessed by subway or car. Expecting the
“biggest mosque of Europe”, visitors often encounter only a handful of
people. Only on Fridays do believers show up in some numbers. Because
the mosque is far from the city, buses are used on Fridays to transport
the believers. However, the Muslim community that resides and prays in
the city has its own mosques which were not constructed as such and,
although invisible from the exterior, are more lively inside. In fact, the
Mosque of Rome did not develop in a grassroots way at all but is known
instead as an “embassy Islam” (Laurence 2012), barely frequented by local
Muslims. When pressed, the janitor, who had first talked about the “biggest mosque of Europe”, said that, in practice, it was too far from the city
to be really used as such. He also did not know in which sense the mosque
was actually the biggest, either in terms of minaret height, dome size or
height, or prayer space surface.
Branding a mosque as a megamosque is not something that is done
exclusively by its opponents but also by Muslims and others who are impressed by the vocabulary of size. The language that was used by a young

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Muslim tourist who visited the mosque and made a video is also striking
for its insistence on the mosque’s size:
Right now I’m actually at the largest mosque in Europe! This one actually beats the one in Madrid, which is number two and this is number
one. I’ll just try to capture it all in the video but it’s just really really big
... You can’t even see the other end from here. It looks like it’s infinite.
It’s just really really big. I think the designer designed to represent the
infinite nature of Allah [referring to the geometric patterns and the
columns] ... It’s really big, amazing, mashallah.3
The short video ends with the statement that, actually, the main prayer
space is only opened on Fridays (presumably because of a lack of visitors),
and that those who come here to pray ordinarily use “a basement”. The
basement is moreover often empty, and the space for ritual ablution, the
wudhu, is also very quiet and not at all designed for handling thousands
of people.
The megamosque genre is about both size and location, as in the
Mosque of Rome or the Mosque of Venice, creating images of mosques
that are right at the centre of these places of Christian-European heritage,
even though in fact the Mosque of Rome is outside the city and the Muslim population that works in Venice and surrounding areas lives in Mestre, a nearby town not visited by tourists. Similarly, the so-called “Ground
Zero Mosque” in Lower Manhattan, often described as a “megamosque”
as well, is a name that emphasises location rather than size. Although the
nickname was invented by its opponents, it is now frequently used by
Muslims and other sympathisers in its defense, and also because they are
often unfamiliar with the more neutral name Park51 Mosque. At a meeting about the image and future of Park51 in New York, one of the speakers
warned board members of the Islamic center that “if you don’t define your
brand, someone else will”.4 We may add that the megamosque “brand” can
be appropriated and interpreted in more than one way.
Megamosqueing, or making a mosque an object of both anxiety and
pride, is exemplified by the way in which the city of Rotterdam has dealt
with the Essalam Mosque. In this case, buildings much higher than
the mosque have altered the landscape only a few blocks away without
much ado. When the Russian Orthodox Church of the Holy Alexander
Nevsky was built close to Rotterdam’s Erasmus Bridge, in a neo-style that
could be perceived as similar to that of the neo-traditionalist Essalam
Mosque, there were no protests. Meanwhile, opponents of the Essalam
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Mosque called it a “megamosque” but also “a huge religious fortress”.
Geert Wilders, leader of the anti-Islam Freedom Party (pvv, Partij Voor
de Vrijheid), frequently referred to it in the media as a “a palace of hatred” (haatpaleis). In the Freedom Party’s 2010 election campaign video,
Wilders is standing before the mosque as he warns of subsequent waves
of Muslim foreigners threatening the Netherlands by increasing crime
and welfare dependency. The pvv has also stated that one of its political
goals is to ban mosques from being constructed within the ring of Dutch
cities, even though mosque construction is currently legally guaranteed
by the freedom of religion (godsdienstvrijheid) and acknowledged by almost all political parties.
Wilders chose the Essalam Mosque as a symbol of what his party is
against because of its megamosque image that makes it out to be the
largest in the Netherlands or even Western Europe. Even usually wellinformed newspapers uncritically adopt this trope. Leading Dutch newspaper nrc Handelsblad, for instance, began a 2010 article by emphasising the size of the mosque: “With a dome of 25 meters and 50 meter
high minarets the Essalam Mosque was opened in Rotterdam-South. It
is immediately the biggest Islamic house of worship in Western Europe.
The towers reach higher than the lights of the nearby located football
stadium, the Kuip of Feyenoord.” For non-Muslims living in Rotterdam,
the idea of a mosque close to the football stadium and with minarets
that reached higher than the football stadium lights was often disturbing. The documentary made about the people in the neighbourhood of
the mosque, Hoger dan de Kuip (i.e. higher than the Kuip football stadium) includes interviews with Dutch seniors living next to the mosque.
Some of them did not mind the mosque; others were unhappy with the
building but could reconcile themselves to its presence by employing humor. But there were also those who could not help feeling alienated from
their neighbourhood. A senior lady remarked: “If I had known [that the
mosque would be built], I would have never decided to live here.” Her
neighbour added: “The problem here is that there already so many foreign shops and people, and if that mosque is added, then our neighbourhood just isn’t the neighborhood anymore.” The residents felt that the
minarets of the mosque should not be higher than the “native” lights of
the football stadium.
On a map of Rotterdam-South published in a local newspaper in 2011,
the mosque is called “the biggest in Europe”.5 The map was designed for
addressing the problem areas in Rotterdam-South and placed the supposedly largest mosque in Europe in a central location surrounded by urban

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issues such as high rates of crime. In many debates about the mosque,
the issue of size is often equated with the social issues of inner-city areas.
In such imaginings, the mosque symbolises socio-economic marginality
rather than emancipation through public expression. For instance, an article in a major national newspaper about crime among young DutchMoroccans was accompanied by a picture of the Essalam Mosque’s visitors and the word “scum” (tuig) in the title.6 The picture showed mosque
visitors putting on or taking off shoes before or after performing a prayer,
including a young child in the middle and one of the mosque’s board
members. The building and its everyday life thus become visually associated with crime and marginality.
The Dutch history of intolerance towards Catholics suggests that it
would be an oversimplification to portray the conflict over mosques as
one between a “white” Dutch population against a “black” – in this case
Moroccan – population. Only from the nineteenth century onwards were
Catholics allowed to build churches, and the law that banned Catholic
processions was not reformed until the 1980s. That said, megamosque
conflicts, as well as interreligious conflicts with Islam in the Netherlands,
are powerfully tied to the racial tensions that exist among and within all
groups in the highly multicultural district of Rotterdam-South. In Hoger
dan de Kuip, three young unveiled Turkish girls ask a Surinamese Rotterdammer, a huge football fan and someone who was raised in the neighbourhood, what he thinks about the mosque:
“It doesn’t belong here. Rotterdam is the harbor, cranes, the Euromast
tower.”
“But why not? There has to be a mosque, right?”
“Everybody has a right to his own house of worship, but it didn’t have to
be this big.”
“But it isn’t that big!”
Later in the documentary, the man sits in a Dutch brown café, a place
where local Dutch Muslims usually don’t go. “For me, there is only one
temple in this neighbourhood and that is the Kuip. That’s enough.” He
was worried that the non-Muslim inhabitants would leave the neighbourhood because of the mosque. At first, he boldly states that he would stay
no matter what but then says that should he have a family in the future, it
would probably be better to leave.
Muslim sympathisers frequently do not mind the Rotterdam mosque
being branded as the largest mosque of Europe. Some Rotterdam-based
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Religious Architecture.indd 53
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Muslims question the status of the Essalam Mosque as the biggest in
Europe, but nevertheless the mediatised vision of the Essalam Mosque
as a “huge” building has survived to this day. Before the opening of the
mosque, the Muslim community would regularly pray outside in the open
because their smaller, almost invisible, mosque was packed. “When the
big mosque is finished, we will not have to pray outside anymore. It will
be the biggest mosque of Europe!”, said one of the children as he and his
family joined the others for prayer in the chilly weather.
Symmetrical anthropology
It should not surprise the reader by now that the Essalam Mosque is de
facto neither the biggest in Europe nor even in the Netherlands. When I
first visited the mosque myself, I remember being surprised by its relatively small size (plates 3 & 4). It was much smaller than I had imagined,
far smaller than most churches. I was quite puzzled. The terrain around
the building did not look very attractive to me at the time – still under
construction and surrounded by mud and dirt, the building was located
alongside an uninspiring road towards the highway (plate 5).
The maximum capacity of the new building of around 1,000 individuals is dwarfed by the East London Mosque or the Mosque of Rome.
When finished, the Marseille Grand Mosque claims to be able to support over 7,000 people. Though in terms of surface and capacity, the
Essalam Mosque is nowhere near being the biggest, the 50-metre-high
minarets are among the tallest in Europe. For example, the Cologne Central Mosque has only slightly higher minarets, and those of the St. Petersburg Mosque, which opened in 1913, are also around 50 metres high.
Nevertheless, even a year after the opening of the Essalam Mosque, it has
repeatedly been referred to as the “biggest in Europe”. To my surprise,
this occurred again on television in 2012 in one of the episodes of Mijn
Moskee is Top (“My mosque is great”), a Dutch television show about
local mosques. The presenter, a veiled Dutch-Moroccan woman, welcomed her viewers in the Essalam Mosque, smiling and gesturing with
her hands: “Welcome to the biggest mosque of the Netherlands and of
Europe!”
The obsession with mosque size in the language of both Muslims and
mosque critics indicates that the mediation and perception of size lives a
life of its own. Because the language about megamosques is clearly unrelated to actual reality, a strict constructivist would be tempted to call the

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trope of the megamosque a fetish. The fetish is an idol that we have created ourselves, feared by some and revered by others. Motivated by a political goal – for example the advancement of religious freedom – the strict
constructivist aims to smash the discourse that he believes is responsible
for the fetish, which is deemed in conflict with this right. However, as
Bruno Latour has argued, the use of the term fetish exaggerates the power
of social construction. In our case, the strict constructivist fails to explain
the effects that the mosque produces by being perceived by different parties such as mosque sceptics and local Muslims. The constructionist language does not allow the object, the mosque, to be threatening or to make
someone happy. The use of the word fetish is in a way pejorative because
social constructionism is, as Bruno Latour has argued, the parlance of the
anti-fetishist, someone who is in the business of breaking idols such as
the megamosque. The anti-fetishist holds that it is not allowed to understand a human fabrication as an autonomous entity. An ethical desire may
guide the anti-fetishist to defend a minority’s rights to their own space by
stepping outside the illusory construction and convincing the impartial
reader that the mosque is, in fact, not necessarily threatening in itself but
hyped as such. An odd consequence of this approach is that the mosque
can also not be accounted for the happiness it generates among its users
as a big mosque.
A fetish is ordinarily interpreted as wholly mind-dependent, the
product of the “inside” of our minds. When describing the megamosque
genre, words such as “imagination” can mislead us into downplaying the
role of physical things in the process of mediation and ultimately into
an exaggeratedly anthropocentric epistemology, which sharply separates
the “inside” world of the mind with the “out there” world of physical
facts. Radical epistemological anthropocentrism fails in critical thought
because it promotes forgetfulness of “what Michel Foucault called the
‘awesome materiality’ of our human-technical worlds” (Read 2012). Constructivism is valuable when it explores the conditions for the possibility
of human knowledge, by setting limits and explaining how knowledge
is constructed. The introduction of such a Kantian theory of knowledge, deepened by Foucault’s genealogical approach, means that social
constructions are never up for grabs but made possible by the material
limits of our worlds. What Latour calls a “symmetrical anthropology”
(2010: 29) also limits a radical constructivism in which anything could
be potentially constructed by reminding us not only of “constructed”
fetishes but also “factual” realities. But where social practices are concerned, these can never be accessed as wholly distinct from each other.
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Rather than studying either side, Latour thinks we should see them as
“factishes”, an entanglement of what is constructed and what is objective.
Rather than seeing the task of the anthropologist as freeing himself from
the alienation of a constructed and thus illusory reality, he thinks that
we should study how the partial and impartial, the fetish and the fact, exist only “from entanglement to even greater entanglement” (ibid: 61). In
short, Latour subverts the very idea that anthropologists must “choose
between constructivism and realism” (ibid: 16). Not only are facts constructed and value-laden but what is constructed is real and fact-laden.
A building, therefore, is not a neutral object waiting to be imbued with
meaning by people but it facilitates values, for or against it, disclosed
in and through an organically intertwined “world” (Heidegger 1927;
Arendt 1958), existing as a spiraling of the subjective-objective poles,
which Latour has also called a “circulating reference” (Latour 1999: 2479). Mosque construction has been one of the most influential ways for
the spatial establishment of such a “world” of Dutch Islam. However, a
mosque “in itself ” cannot determine the quality and future of spatial establishments but relies on how the building is used and perceived – that
is, on social practices.
If not merely a fetish but a factish, how then does the megamosque that
we have constructed ourselves, physically as well as in collective imaginations, speak? Latour’s notion of a “symmetrical anthropology” collapses the dichotomy between interiority and exteriority, between minddependent constructions and a mind-independent reality, and thus also
between a speaking subject and a spoken-about object. A Muslim does
not only pray in a mosque, he is not only a subject or a mosque user,
he is also called to prayer by the mosque and in that sense the object
of a mosque’s attention. The claim that buildings speak can be exaggerated when the “spirit” of a time and place is ascribed to a building in an
overly deterministic and homogenising manner. Nevertheless, buildings
can be said to have “psychologies” that affect the humans who use them.
In a meditation on the language of architecture, Alain de Botton suggests
three possible ways in which buildings speak (2007: 77-100).
First, buildings speak about who we are, they are anthropomorphic.
The mosque is personified, an actor in the megamosque allegory. We
have seen that it has ignited feelings of competition. Other physical objects such as a crane in the harbour or a light in a stadium become personified as well. It is easy and instinctive for neighbourhood residents to
identify with these objects and to give them their own identities. Competitive personification means that, for example, size can become a mat-
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ter of a Muslim’s defense of what he considers his right to the city, despite
any pious or sober claims that one can pray anywhere and that the whole
earth is a mosque. The story of relationality, by definition, is not something that happens merely in private but rather in shared spaces in the
city.
Second, buildings speak about who we wish to be, they are metaphoric.
The mosque speaks by expressing visions of polity, of a city and a nation, of
who we want to be together. Physical mediation is essential for such grand
mosque speech acts. We can see the mosque clearly when approaching it
from the river and on the side of the train tracks. Its white marble glitters in the sun and because the area has not yet been fully developed,
the mosque can look impressive in size in comparison with the flat space
that surrounds it. Thanks to the car roads connecting the mosque to the
highway, the number of people who actually see it run in the thousands.
Because the mosque is located next to a railway track connecting Rotterdam to the south of the Netherlands and Belgium, it is known far beyond
Rotterdam-South. At night, the mosque is lit up and clearly visible. This
visibility sparked criticism because the mosque speaks about a city that
people may not want to belong to, and about citizens who may not want
to respond to the mosque’s demand for acknowledgment. The responses
to the mosque shape citizens’ identities.
Third, the Essalam Mosque speaks in a highly connotative manner, it is
evocative. It addresses the city or the nation by being dressed up in a certain garment, quoting from the innumerable images that shape our conscious and unconscious thoughts. Especially this aspect of the mosque’s
speaking was experienced as troubling for critics of the mosque, which
reminded them too much of a conservative, old-fashioned Islam. For
Christian Welzbacher, for instance, the Essalam Mosque is in Europe but
not European (2008). The mosque upholds the binary of Islam and the
West rather than progressively dissolving it. On the Internet and in newspapers, it was described as a mosque from Disneyland, a kitschy collage.
From the right of Muslims to put their mark on the city, such lines of arguing quickly lead into debates about style. These style issues are closely
connected to the evocative quality of the mosque and lead to questions
as to what it is exactly that different groups of people want the mosque
to evoke.7 From a debate about citizens’ right to the city or the right of
mosques to speak at all, we can move towards what they should tell us.
Whereas some local Muslims may want to religiously distinguish themselves from other groups of Muslims, others may be more concerned with
their relation to a national identity.
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It is not without reason that architects believe that their work can influence our behaviour, feelings and thoughts. Not only style but also spatial composition, for example, has an impact on how mosques speak. At
night, when standing in front of the mosque, the lights of the football
stadium make it look as if mosque and stadium are close to each other.
When standing in between them during the day, however, the distance
is perceived to be much greater. It takes about ten minutes by foot to approach the football stadium, whereas at night it looks as if the stadium is
right behind the mosque.
The aesthetic transformation of the environment speaks to the residents of the neighbourhood and in time subtly changes who they are,
who they want to be and how they associate imagery in the process. Since
the Essalam Mosque has been in use, further alterations to the mosque
continue to transform the neighbourhood. Although the inside of the
Essalam Mosque has still not been finished due to financial stagnation, a
square has been realised in front of the mosque, which makes the building look more monumental. In spring, the tulips in front of the mosque
have improved the appearance of the environment. The square has been
named “Vredesplein” or “Peace Square” after the mosque’s Arabic name,
and it has its own street sign. Beneath the Peace Square and in front of
the Essalam Mosque, a large parking space has been created. On one occasion, after observing and participating in the Friday prayers, I left the
building with a friend and took the stairs to the parking lot to get to his
car. The signs in the parking facility had been adjusted to accomodate
the mosque: on one of the walls, the word “Mosque” with an arrow had
been painted in big block letters. Such subtle material changes enable the
Muslim community to materially spatialise in a “concrete lived environment” (Meyer 2009: 5).
Conclusion
In the last two decades, the Dutch city of Rotterdam has become one
of the main urban centres in the Netherlands for debates on the social
significance and aesthetics of mosques. Religious architecture engenders
explicit discourses of identity, a literally material way to demand recognition for the right to the city. In this paper, I showed that the megamosque genre ordinarily conveys information about the depicters and
users of the image, whether for or against the building, and barely about
what it is supposed to depict, namely the mosque as it is used in everyday
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practices. It would therefore be wrong to say that the megamosque genre
is not a social construction, coloured mainly by anxieties and fears, but
also by pride and the wish to belong. However, I have argued that that
does not mean that the importance of physical alterations to Rotterdam’s cityscape should be underscored or seen as inconsequential. Following Latour, I have suggested that we adjust our conception of social
construction by making it less anthropocentric. The constructed megamosque genre is inextricably bound to the very real Essalam Mosque, a
building that has the power to impact people’s feelings about their city.
We have seen that conflicting emotions such as anxiety and pride can
manifest themselves through and thanks to the mosque. Not only demands for integration and recognition but also the practice of religious
toleration, something in between anxiety and full acceptance, must then
have aesthetic dimensions. How can a building evoke feelings of toleration and sentiments of sociability? Such questions need to be informed
by stylistic criticism, which in turn needs anthropological accounts of
how people use and view such buildings, but also of how in their everyday lives they can call them forth.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Oskar Verkaaik and Stephen Read, among others,
for their helpful comments. A version of this paper was presented in New
York at the 2012 aag conference.
Notes







www.wijblijvenhier.nl
Pooyan Tamimi Arab. “De drijvende moskee van Venetië”, December , .
www.nieuwemoskee.nl
“Largest Mosque in Rome (Italy)”, Accessed Oct. , . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjaAaetEc
Pooyan Tamimi Arab. “De toekomst van islamitische kunst en architectuur in
New York”, March , . www.nieuwemoskee.nl
“Rotterdam-Zuid het afvoerputje van ons land”, ad Nieuws, Feb , .
“Het tuig gaat met de ramadan aan de haal”, www.volkskrant.nl, July , .
For the sake of brevity, I have not discussed the specifics of the stylistic debate. For the vision of the Essalam Mosque’s Dutch architect, Wilfred van
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Winden, see his essay in Erkoçu and Bugdaci (). Christian Welzbacher
has criticised the mosque design (). Marcel Maussen has discussed the
mosque’s construction process and the stylistic debate from the perspective of Dutch governance of Islam (). Eric Roose has written an essay
about the designing process in which he discusses the role of the patron
().
References
Arendt, Hannah (1958) The Human Condition. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
Cesari, Joycelyne (2005) “Mosque conflicts in European cities: Introduction”, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 31 (6): 1015-1024.
De Botton, Alain (2007) The Architecture of Happiness. London: Penguin
Books.
Duyvendak, Jan Willem (2011) The Politics of Home. Belonging and Nostalgia in Western Europe and the United States. New York: Pallgrave
Macmillan.
Erkoçu, Ergün, and Bugdaci, Cihan (2009) De Moskee. Politieke, architectonische en maatschappelijke transformaties. Rotterdam: nai Uitgevers.
Harvey, David (2008) “The Right to the City”, New Left Review 53: 23-40.
Heidegger, Martin ([1927] 1962) Being and Time. trans. J. Macquarrie and
E. Robinson. San Francisco: HarperCollins.
Jaeckle, Justin, and Türetken, Füsun (eds.) (2011) Faith in the city: The
mosque in the contemporary urban West. London: The Architecture
Foundation.
Latour, Bruno (1999) Pandora’s Hope. Essays on the Reality of Science
Studies. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
— (2010) On the modern cult of the factish gods. Durham: Duke University Press.
Laurence, Jonathan (2012) The Emancipation of Europe’s Muslims: The
State’s Role in Minority Integration. Princeton: Princeton University
Press.
Maussen, Marcel (2009) Constructing Mosques, the governance of Islam
in France and the Netherlands. Amsterdam: Amsterdam School for
Social Science Research.
Meyer, Birgit (ed.) (2009) Aesthetic Formations, Media, Religion, and the
Senses. New York: Palgrave MacMillan.

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Read, Stephen (2012) Technology and the body public. Accessible on
tudelft.academia.edu/StephenRead (accessed August 2012).
Roose, Eric (2012) “Constructing Authentic Houses of God: Religious Politics and Creative Iconographies in Dutch Mosque Design”, Material
Religion: The Journal of Objects, Art and Belief 8 (3): 280-307.
Welzbacher, Christian (2008) Euroislam-Architektur: Die neuen Moscheen
des Abendlandes. Amsterdam: Sun Publishers.
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Golden Storm
The Ecstasy of the Igreja de São Francisco in Salvador da
Bahia, Brazil
Mattijs van de Port
Without the sacred, the totality of the plenitude of being escapes man,
he would be no longer anything but incomplete.
Georges Bataille
Although I am slightly embarrassed to admit it, there is no denying the
fact that when I entered the Igreja de São Francisco in Salvador, Bahia –
one of the most famous baroque churches in Brazil – I had an immediate
bodily reaction: my nipples hardened. No goose bumps, no gasping for air,
no shivers down my spine (bodily responses which somehow feel more
admissible to open an academic discussion) but hard nipples. And mind
you, it wasn’t even the first time I entered this church.
‘The erection of nipples’, writes the Wikipedia entry on the subject
(where I hastily sought to objectify the curious response of this unruly
body of mine), ‘is due to the contraction of smooth muscle under the control of the autonomic nervous system’. The site also reassures me that hard
nipples are
... more akin to a hair follicle standing on end than to a sexual erection.
Nipple erections are a product of the pilomotor reflex which causes
goose bumps. The erection of the nipple is partially due to the cylindrically arranged muscle cells found within it.
For whatever this information is worth, the important fact to note
here is that an architectural space worked my ‘autonomic nervous
system’. A religious building made my ‘cylindrically arranged muscle
cells’ respond, quite independent of what I deem appropriate for visiting a church or consider becoming for opening an academic inquiry.
What this oddly detached encyclopedic language effectively brings to
the fore, then, is that in situations where people enter religious buildings, the body is as much a medium as the church. Both are sensationproducing instruments. Rather than sticking to the sender (church)-
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receiver (visitor) model, we are dealing with the intersection of two mediating systems.
In this contribution, I want to draw attention to what seems to be the
sovereign power of an aesthetic formation such as a church building over
(the body of ) its visitors1 – more in particular the sense of loss and disorientation that comes with it. Anthropologists have long restricted their
study of architecture to the way buildings are linked to the broader patterns of world-making in a given time and place.2 Churches, mosques,
temples and shrines have thus been analysed as the materialisation and
expression of peoples’ ideas, discourses, mental maps or worldviews.
Thus, Clifford Geertz, in his analysis of the ‘theatre state’ in Bali, wrote
about the puri, the kingly palace:
Like so many traditional palaces the world around, and most notably
like Indic ones, the puri was itself, in its sheer material form, a replica of
the order it was constructed to celebrate ... its layout reproduced in yet
another medium the deep geometry of the cosmos ... What the padmasana expressed sculpturally, the lingga metaphorically, and the cremation theatrically, the puri expressed architecturally: the seat of the king
was the axis of the world. (Geertz 1980: 109)
Edmund Leach, in his discussion of South Indian temple architecture,
similarly argued:
The members of all societies, complex as well as primitive, externalize the ideas they hold about the physical and metaphysical universes,
and about the social relations within their own society, by making and
manipulating artifacts. The clothes we wear, the houses we live in, the
decorated structures with which we surround ourselves, the paths we
construct through such human worlds, are all expressive of human
ideas, some of which are perfectly well known at a conscious level of
experience, while other are only dimly perceived and exist only as sets
of relations within the artificially constructed world of culture. (Leach
1983: 243-244, italics in the original)
Regarding Brazilian baroque architecture, of which the Igreja de São
Francisco is an example, art historian João Adolfo Hansen took a similar
position. The only academically valid discussion of this church, Hansen
argues, is a reading of it through the prism of the worldview of its eighteenth-century designers and commissioners. Hansen goes as far as to re-
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ject the notion of ‘the baroque’ as a useful heuristic tool for analysis. The
baroque, he argues, was only coined as a ‘style’ in the nineteenth century,
and the characteristics attributed to this particular style – ‘informality,
irrationalism, the pictorial, fusionism, contrast, disproportion, deformation, accumulation, excess, exuberance, dynamism, incongruency, doubt,
a taste for stark oppositions, Angst, word plays, thematic nihilism, fear for
emptiness’ (Hansen 2006: 18-19) – speak to the theoretical dispositions
and ideological concerns of the nineteenth-century academy. Hansen argued that one cannot make the a priori assumption that these characteristics – and more important, the moral and psychological connotations
attributed to them by nineteenth-century scholars – are revelatory of the
mindset and affects of eighteenth-century Brazilians, and the term has
therefore no role in the interpretation of an architectural form such as the
Igreja de São Francisco.
While the interpretation of a building within its historical and cultural
context is certainly a useful approach, I also deem it problematic. First
of all, the reduction of architectural meaning to the interpretations that
pertain to a particular locality and period eliminates all incentives to investigate the sovereign power of form itself. Keeping the example of the
baroque in mind, I would like to draw attention to the fact that the expressive potential of a curl is not the same as the expressive potential
of a straight line, and that this is so independent of time and place. And
although the experiences provoked by either a curl or a straight line will
be evaluated and interpreted in culturally and historically different ways,
this does not do away with the fact that there is something intrinsic to
curls and straight lines: they ‘speak differently’.
Second, giving primacy to the local fixes the understanding of a
building’s meaning in a particular culture and a particular historical
period and fails to register that buildings tend to survive their makers
(and their culture) and thus come to mean something else in dialogue
with new times and generations (and their cultures) (cf. Appadurai
1986). Thus, if we return to the example of the Igreja de São Francisco, the meaning of that church cannot be locked into the worldview
of the eighteenth-century commissioners, architects, artists and craftsmen who conceived of the building and built it. As the church continues
to attract new generations of Bahians – not to mention the throngs of
non-Bahian visitors who visit the church today – its meaning is constantly changing. In semiotic terms, the Igreja de São Francisco cannot
be taken as a single, unified object – it is, as Victor Turner (1969) would
put it, ‘polysemic’.
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A third problem that arises from this perspective is that primacy is
given to the sense-making that the symbolic order3 allows for: in the approach advocated by Geertz, Leach and others, the culturally informed
subject always already knows (even if only ‘dimly perceived’, as Leach suggested above) what the church, mosque or temple is, signifies and does.
They pertain, after all, to the same structures of meaning. In this line of
thought, all that a religious building can ever be is an illustration, a confirmation, an expression of that cultural order, i.e. that which is already
known. As indicated in the opening of the article, this perspective leaves
no space whatsoever for the fact that experientially a religious building
may be playing a visitor as much as the visitor is playing it, and that the
way visitors are being played may well go against their very own understandings. ‘When we adopt what we take to be the [artwork’s] organizing principle,’ says Bruce Baugh, ‘and allow it to order our experience,
we give the work a power over us sufficient to alter our experience of the
world from its very foundations’ (Baugh 1986: 481). Indeed, buildings may
baffle us, derail us, shake us out of the expected, disrupt our received ways
of knowing and understanding, transport us beyond the horizons of our
knowing. This ‘numinous’, ‘sublime’, ‘miraculous’ or ‘ecstatic’ dimension of
architecture, I will argue, confronts us with what I have elsewhere called
‘the-rest-of-what-is’ (Van de Port 2012). Following William James’ adage
that ‘in the distinctly religious sphere of experience’, many persons possess the objects of their belief, ‘not in the form of mere conceptions which
their intellect accepts as true, but rather in the form of quasi- sensible
realities directly apprehended’ (1902), this experiential dimension cannot
be neglected. Most definitely not in a study of religious architecture, as my
reading of the interior of the Igreja de São Francsico will show.
The Igreja de São Francisco: ‘Catch me, catch me, I’m falling!’
The Igreja de São Francisco is part of a Franciscan convent and was built
between 1708 and 1723 to replace an earlier church destroyed by the Dutch
during their invasions of Salvador. Art historians tell us that the decoration of the interior took much longer and was only finished in 1782.4 Seen
from the outside, the church looks plain enough. Somewhat tucked away
at the far end of the Terreiro de Jesus, the central square of the historical
Pelourinho district, it comes across as ‘yet another baroque church’ (Terreiro de Jesus alone counts four huge baroque churches, the city many
more). Entering the building, one first has to access the portaria, a spa-
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cious dark entrance hall with a late-eighteenth-century – and not entirely
convincing – trompe l’oeuil ceiling, painted by José Joaquim da Rocha. It
now contains the ticket office for the many tourists who want to visit the
church. The portaria gives way to an open, two-storey cloister with whitewashed plastered walls reflecting the bright sunlight. The lower parts of
the walls are entirely decorated with eighteenth-century white and blue
azulejos tile panels, which were manufactured in Lisbon and depict allegorical scenes of virtuous living based on sayings by the Roman poet
Horace.
To enter the church itself, one has to pass a narrow and rather uninviting corridor, which does nothing to prepare the visitor for what is coming
(or indeed, adds to the shock effect): stepping into the church, one finds
oneself in the midst of what João Adolfo Hansen (in his attempts to undo
eighteenth-century architecture of nineteenth-century qualifications and
remain ‘objective’) would probably describe as ‘an ornately decorated
space’. I would rather describe it as a ‘golden storm’ – an overwhelming,
whirling jumble of gilded ornaments and a ‘blast’ to one’s sensory apparatus, all the way down to one’s ‘cylindrically arranged muscle cells’.
Sitting down on one of the hard wooden pews, taking in the jumble bit
by bit, one may observe some striking facts about the interior design of
the church.5
The most noticeable aspect of the interior is what some have called
the ‘horror vacuii’ of the baroque, its ‘fear for empty spaces’. The walls
around the main entrance contain some white plastered parts, but as one
progresses towards the altar there are no more empty surfaces. Wherever
you look, there are vines, tied bows, roses, atlantes, caryatides, seashells,
acanthus leaves, hearts, ropes, grapes, birds, garlands, blazons, dragons,
stylised torches aflame, bells and angels. Angels – hundreds of them,
cherubs and seraphims, with and without wings, punctuating the golden shimmer with their baby-coloured skin and marzipan-pink nipples.
Where there are no woodcarvings smothered in gold leaf, there are panels
of azulejos, depicting the miraculous events from the life of Saint Francis,
paintings of biblical scenes or statues of saintly figures. The rectangular,
hexagonal, rhombic and star-shaped surfaces in between the complicated geometrical patterns of the vaults on the ceiling all contain paintings
with more biblical scenes. The multi-coloured marble floor is decorated
with wild, curly vegetal motives. Every single object – chandeliers, candle
stands, balustrades, balconies, altars, columns, doors, holy-water fonts –
seems to have spurred on the decorative zeal of the builders and become
a pretext for more ornamentation.
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Focusing on the ornamentations themselves, the eye soon gets lost in
a labyrinth: a genuine proliferation of floral and vegetal motives that get
lost in what seem to be an unstoppable movement of curling, curving and
spiraling. The sensation of the ‘labyrinthical’ is most spectacularly evoked
in the ceiling above the altar, where a white and golden geometrical pattern is running loose (plate 6).
Next to the evident preference for curls, curves and labyrinthical patterns, the interior also reveals a remarkable hostility to closure. Wherever
boundaries were found, the impulse has been to break them down, negate
them. The trompe l’oeuil ceiling of the portaria (and many other baroque
churches in Salvador) is the clearest example of the preference for ‘permeable frames’. With their breaking skies and flying angels, inviting the
eye higher and higher up to the Light, they are a pure negation of a closed
structure, promising a freedom of movement and flow between sacred
and mundane domains. In the Igreja de São Francisco proper, however,
the undoing of rigid boundaries is more the effect of the indulgence in
ornamentation, which leads to an ‘encrustation’ of all clear lines, blurring
all sharp divisions and leaving all forms amorphous, like a shipwreck on
the bottom of the ocean. The negation of closure is also evoked by the
angels. Often positioned at the margins of architectural spaces, these flying creatures lend their ephemeral nature to the boundary – negating the
absoluteness of the division, connecting separate domains, inviting the
spectator to cross the line.
In ocular terms, this interior exemplifies what Christine Buci-Glucksman (1992) calls, in her study of baroque aesthetics, ‘la folie du voir’.
The bewildering jumble of images and ornaments provokes a restless eye,
lost in curves and curls and folds, destabilised by the perpetual movement and shifting boundaries. Yet the attempt to grasp how one is being
‘played’ by the church in optical terms misses out on M.T.J. Mitchell’s
reminder that: ‘Architecture, the impurest medium of all, incorporates
all the other arts in a Gesamtkunstwerk and typically is not even “looked
at” with any concentrated attention, but is perceived, as Walter Benjamin
noted, in a state of distraction. Architecture is not primarily about seeing, but about dwelling and inhabiting’. The interior of the Igreja de São
Francisco is better grasped in terms such as ‘aisthesis’ (Verrips 2006) or
‘corpothetics’ (Pinney 2004), which underscore that all the senses are
being addressed and played – all the way to the autonomous nervous
system and pilomotor reflexes of the body. Indeed, the Igreja de São
Francisco does not want you to maintain your distance so as ‘to get the
picture’. Its aesthetic tactic is to overwhelm you, to engulf you, to break
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down the control that ‘observation’ allows. The sensation it seeks is to
push you off track, to provoke a sensation of dizziness, of falling, of losing one’s grip. There is no better illustration of what this church proposes
as a ‘sensational form’ (Meyer 2010) than to see what it has made out of
the classic columns of earlier epochs: no longer straight and erect, they
have become spirals, icons of movement, negations of the very stone they
are made of.
The sensation of losing one’s grip, and the bodily dizziness that comes
with it, continues at a semantic level as the dissolution of clear-cut architectural boundaries coincides with the dissolution of clear-cut categories
that make up the symbolic order. There are transformations and metamorphoses everywhere. Decorative curls become plants, which in turn
become human figures. When giving them a second, more attentive look,
the acanthus leaves reveal the features of a lion’s head. Human limbs, not
pertaining to anybody, hold out chandeliers. Indeed, the category ‘human’
is not treated as a privileged category here; the limbs are mere decorative
elements. Everything could well be something else. Are these angels really
angels? Many offer their nakedness to the congregation as ever so many
flashers. Some seem pregnant. Some have remarkably erect nipples. Some
look at us as would a prostitute soliciting at a street corner. Most of them
boast silly smiles and other rather idiotic facial expressions, so stupid that
you can’t help thinking that the slaves who did the woodcarving must have
had a good laugh mocking the facial expressions of their Portuguese masters (a point that is also stressed by the black tour guides who take tourists
into the church and help them ‘read’ the interior).
And yet, for all the dizziness that the golden storm that is the interior
of the Igreja de São Francisco provokes, a description of my impressions
would not be complete without mentioning its experiential antidote. For
as much as this place seeks to induce in its visitors a sensation of falling, no one actually falls when entering the church. No one loses control
or goes mad. And intriguingly, it might well be again the design of the
interior that brings about this sensation. For in the storm of whirling ornamentations, the statues of the saints remain calm and serene, resting
points for the eye in spite of their flowing robes. More importantly, the
overall structure of the interior has a theatrical set up: the corridor of the
nave, flanked by dark wooden pews, and the arched aisles all draw attention to the altar, thus bringing into focus the huge statue of Saint Francis
embracing Jesus on the cross.
It is in this simultaneity of ‘losing one’s grip’ and ‘being led towards the
savior’ that this church interior is at its most effectual: the sensation of
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disorientation and instability comes hand in hand with an awe-inducing
sensation that a transcendent power, capable of keeping it all together,
is present in this space. One might put it this way: dizziness is produced
to derail the subject, to force him out of the regular structures of the everyday, only to then grab this falling subject and lead him up to the light.
Martin Jay reminds us that this, again, is as much a sensuous effect as a
psychological one. ‘If the eye is so deceptive and the visual scene so replete
with dazzling flashes of brilliance’, says Jay, ‘casting light only on opaque,
impenetrable surfaces, recourse to another sense for security may appear
an obvious antidote to its dizzying effects’ (Jay 1988: 318).
Multiple responses: What to make out of this golden storm?
Although my intent has been to keep the previous section somewhat ‘descriptive’, it is, of course, a very particular evocation of the interior of
the Igreja de São Francisco. Every phrase, every word, every metaphor
is loaded with particular qualifications, judgments and assessments as
to what to make of this ‘ornately decorated interior’, and I am fully aware
that these qualifications are relevant and appropriate to a Dutchman
with a sensitive autonomous nervous system and a cultivated aversion to
academic forms of world-making, visiting Bahia at the beginning of the
twenty-first century – and not necessarily to other visitors of the church.
An inventory of reactions to the church interior reveals that indeed the
Igreja de São Francisco (and similar baroque churches in Bahia) has elicited a multiplicity of different comments as well as provoked a variety of
actions.
To start with the latter, whereas this church interior struck me as a convincing example of Georges Bataille’s guilt-laden confessions on the experiential proximity of the temple and the whorehouse – ‘my true church is
a whorehouse, the only one that gives me true satisfaction’ (Bataille 1998:
100) – Talento and Hollanda (2008: 79) tell us that many of the angels
and cherubs originally had genitals, but these were at some point in time
cut off by Franciscan friars, presumably trying to police the boundary
between ecstatic worship and erotic stimulation. They were donned with
little culottes, which – in a continuation of the striptease act – were taken
off again in later stages, for reasons I do not know (plate 7).
Luis Freire, in his interesting history of the interior reforms to which
the great majority of Salvador’s baroque churches were subjected in the
nineteenth century (but not the Igreja de São Francisco, as the Franciscan
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order could not afford such reform), minutely reports how one religious
brotherhood after the other sought to reduce the ‘excessive ornamentation’ in the churches of their patron saint, which, under the conventions of
Enlightenment thinking and the neo-classical style that was en vogue, now
came to be understood as ‘a lack of control’ (Freire 2006). Curly, dizzying
decorations as found in the Igreja de São Francisco were removed and replaced by a much more ‘restrained’ kind of interior design. Yet Freire adds,
not without glee, that nineteenth-century members of religious brotherhoods could not easily shake off their baroque ‘fear for empty spaces’: they
did introduce austere Greek columns in the altar works of their churches
but kept commissioning ‘many columns’.
In scholarly debates, the Igreja de São Francisco became an example
for qualifying and defining ‘Bahian baroque’, which in turn became a keyelement of the ‘culture of Brazil’ and ‘the psychology of the Brazilian people’ (cf. Peixoto 1999; De Grammont 2008) Although this is not the place
for a full-length discussion of the baroque in the imagination of ‘Brazil’,
some examples can show us just how different culturally informed readings of Brazilian baroque may be.
Maria Lucia Montes, in her essay on the religious ethos in Brazil, states
that Jesuit Catholicism in the New World sought to immerse believers in
the splendour of the Divine by playing on their bodies. The pagan people
were not to be persuaded by rational argumentation but by a bombardment of the senses. Baroque, in her opinion, is the immersive aesthetic
par excellence.
From the earliest times of the Jesuits onwards, theatre, music, song,
dance and poetry had been part and parcel of the catechistic arsenal.
Simple souls had to be conquered by stunning them; they had to be elevated to the ineffable greatness of the Sacred through the work of the
imagination and the senses. Later, the form in which the churches were
constructed, the decorative profusion of their ceilings, the perfection of
the woodcarvings that incarnated the Saints, the splendour of the gold –
sparkling in the ornaments and connecting itself with the silver so as to
give liturgical objects a light of their own – the singing and the oratory of
the sermon: all of this contributed to the production of that magical atmosphere in which the truths of the Faith – floating on perfumed clouds
of incense – impregnated the soul through the five senses (Montes 1998:
104).
For Roger Bastide, the church became a prime example of the ecstatic and mystical tendencies in Bahian religiosities. In one of his earliest
works on Salvador da Bahia, the French anthropologist has left us an in-
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triguing description of the way the Igreja de São Francisco played him.
Sitting in the church, Bastide contemplates the striking correspondences
between the ecstatic religion of Salvador’s Afro-Brazilian community, the
Candomblé, and the no less ecstatic environment of this baroque church
interior:
When one visits churches and candomblés, an analogy imposes itself,
even against one’s will, between two modes of ecstasy. Down there, in
that intensely green valley, between the palm trees, the banana trees,
and the thick undergrowth of plants, most of which carry the names
of saints and orixás – Bush-of-Ogum, Saints-wood, Carpet-of-Oxalá,
Wounds-of-Saint-Sebastian – the tam-tam of the negroes penetrates
one’s being though the ears, through the nose, through the mouth,
punching one in the stomach, imposing its rhythms on one’s body and
mind. Here [in the baroque churches of the upper city] it is the tam-tam
of the gold and the ornaments that penetrates us, not through our ears
but through our eyes. As with the other tam-tam, that of the sanctuary
of the spirits, it is inescapable. Attempts to get away from the golden
profusion by closing one’s eyes are in vain. It is as when one has been
looking into the sun for too long: luminous stains, a whirling of reds
and yellows going through one’s brain. Opening one’s eyes again, there
is no way to put one’s spirit to rest. The light plays over the low columns,
it nestles in a black vine, in a green leaf, a sacred bird, an angel’s smile,
and then leads us to yet another glittering spot, with the effect that
everything seems to be dancing and whirling, a spinning sensation that
soon captures our own heads. Here, all that is profane in us has left
us. Here, it is impossible to link two ideas, or to coordinate a thought:
we find ourselves turned over to the most terrible of adventures. (1945:
27-28)
Art historian Affonso Ávila, hinting at the ‘semiotic exuberance’ of the
interior and ‘the insertion of African elements and sensibilities’, took the
church to be an example of the ‘Black Baroque in Bahia ... in contrast to a
White Baroque in Minas Gerais, which was also tempered by a strong mulatto presence’ (2001: 124). Others contrasted the ‘sensuality and audacity’
of the Brazilian baroque with the baroque of the Spanish colonies, with its
‘abiding devotion to the ascetic’ (Underwood 2001: 527), thus highlighting Brazilian sensuality. ‘Brazilian Baroque’, says Underwood, ‘delighted
in the tumescence of carnal forms, in the provocative swelling of the flesh’
(ibid: 524).
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A most curious reading of the interior of the Igreja de São Francisco,
expressive of a nationalistic perspective that seeks to define a ‘Brazilian essence’ in opposition to ‘the European’, is the one offered by Riccardo Averini. Writing about the ‘tropical baroque’ of Brazil (1997: 24 ff.),
this art historian resists the whole notion of the baroque as exuberance,
excess, instability, chaos and complexity, which he deems a thoroughly
Eurocentric understanding of this aesthetic.
The exuberance of baroque decorations in no way exceeds the impetuousness and disorderliness of tropical vegetation, but to the contrary,
adapts itself perfectly, and, in its compositional schemes, offers a criterium of selection and ordering principle. In terms of intensity and
variety, this baroque is a ‘less’, not a ‘more’. The gaze that is habituated
to the inextricable convulsions of the tropical forest or the picturesque
cultural mixtures of the early tropical farms, where one would find
next to each other gigantic tall trees and the low level vegetation of productive plants. Here corn, cacao and vegetables would grow in liberty
among each other, and man would not interfere to separate and direct
them (his only function being to harvest the product). The eye so connected to the disorder of nature, a disorder that is animated even further by the incredible colors of wild flowers, immediately distinguishes
the distributive qualities and pacifying order of the structure, in the
[retabulos] of the woodcarvings, and it also senses how this art, building forth on this nature, and imitating it, soon surpasses it, subjecting
it to the discipline of calculation. (1997: 28)
Other commentators focus on the observation that this is the baroque at
its most sumptuous and opulent, or, as Bahian novelist Jorge Amado put
it in his famous 1942 city guide Bahia de Todos os Santos. Guia de Ruas e
Mistérios, ‘the vanity of the religious city’ (2000: 112). In this framing, the
church induces anger and indignation about the waste, the breach with
the Franciscan pledge of poverty. ‘Scholars will probably never figure out
what motives lead these Franciscans, whose philosophy was one of forsaking wealth and embracing poverty, to construct such a rich church.’
(Talento & Hollanda 2008: 78). Of the mere two paragraphs Jorge Amado
dedicates to the Igreja de Sao Francisco in his guide to Salvador (he was
still a communist in those days), one is curiously about a beggar who used
to approach visitors inside the church:
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A little idiot, mutilated, with staring eyes, a syrupy voice, and a stammering kind of talk, sells religious pamphlets to the visitors. He seems
to have escaped from an old novel, a new Quasimodo, crippled, deformed, with a yellowish complexion, greedily taking in the nickels
given to him. In the midst of the marvel of this church he is even more
absurd and more impressive. (2000: 112)
Tourist blogs, to mention a last source of comments on the interior of the
Igreja de São Francisco, again reveal a wide variety of comments, prohibiting single readings of ‘what this church is like’.
Today’s remaining tourist trap was an ornate church called Igreja Sao
Francisco. Our guide book states the non christian slaves who were
forced to build it gained their revenge by endowing the angels with
prominent sexual organs. There’s something peculiar about walking
around a church in a hunt for prominent sexual organs.6
Exuberant decoration. I’m without words.7
We went to see the Igreja Sao Francisco church, which is this massive
baroque church. The inside was so tacky and completely covered in gold
from floor to ceiling. I guess that was once considered beautiful!!!8
Almost every surface inside the church – the walls, pillars, vaults and
ceilings – are covered by golden sculptures, gilt woodwork and paintings. The interior is one of the most beautiful pieces of religious art
we’ve seen to date.9
A spectacular work of art ... On the altar a portrayal of the dream of
Saint Francis in which he embraces Jesus, still on the cross ... I was very
moved ... even more so because I was there with my husband and children ... I felt blessed ...10
And so we can go on and on and on, endless readings, convincing and
appropriate within the particular frames, projects and worldviews of the
people doing the reading. Yet the question of course is: are there more
general lessons to be drawn from this building for an anthropology of
religious architecture?
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Multiplicity and coherence, derailment and redress, jouissance and
plaisir
The multiplicity of responses to the interior of the Igreja de São Francisco
and other similar churches blocks every attempt to produce straightforward, singular statements about ‘the meaning’ of this religious structure.
In a way, the church imposes its ‘baroque’ being on its analyst. Empirically, there is no other conclusion than to say that this church is many
things to many people. It is ‘multiple’. As an author, however, who owes
his readers an argument, I keep searching for ways to bring coherence to
these responses, for a story that might keep my readers from losing it, just
as the underlying structure of the church interior keeps the visitor from
falling.
The easy way out is to introduce the thinking of Alain Badiou (2003)
on the Event: ecstatic derailment catapults the beholder beyond the horizons of the known, blows apart the theater of one’s own imagination,
enables one to face the limitations of one’s reality definitions, and thus
helps to expand possibilities of belief into the infinite rest-of-what-is. To
be converted, in other words, requires this radical shake-up of one’s reality perceptions.
Yet it is here that I need to restrain my all too radical arguments and
force myself to look at the less spectacular occurrences in – and reactions to – the church interior. The different and multiple responses to the
church interior that were just discussed do express a recognition of this
potential to shake up the canons of belief, but they are, in themselves,
moments of redress: attempts to draw into the realm of meaning and thus
colonise and exploit experiences that defy ‘meaning’.
Allow me to explore this thought a bit further. It seems to me that in
most of the responses, an earlier experience of derailment – hard nipples,
tears, head spinnings, feelings of bliss, or indignation – is still present in
the articulation. Take this quote from a travel blog, written by an American tourist:
... they took more than 100 kilograms of gold and slathered it over every
available knob and curlicue in the richly carved interior of this highbaroque church. The result could hardly be called beautiful – works of
the nouveaux riches seldom are – but by God, it’s impressive. The inside
fairly gleams; on nights when the doors are open it casts a yellow sheen
all the way up to Terreiro de Jesus.11
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I find this a most curious mixture of a person seeking distance from experiences imposed on him by the church (the ironic use of the verb ‘to slather’,
which I associate more with food than with gold; the refusal to call the interior ‘beautiful’; the sneer at the tastelessness of the ‘nouveaux riches’) and a
person who is still under the influence of the way he was being ‘played’ (the
exclamation ‘by God!’, the qualification of the interior being ‘impressive’,
the reference to the gleaming of the gold all the way up to the Terreiro de
Jesus). Is this comment not an attempt at redress, an attempt to draw into
the realm of meaning and thus colonise experiences that defy meaning?
And, if we look at other examples presented above, are not the very references to ‘sensuality and audacity’, to ‘provocative swellings of the flesh’, to
the ‘peculiarity’ of walking around a church ‘in a hunt for prominent sexual
organs’ phrasings that seek to incorporate ill-classifiable bodily reactions
provoked by the church into the realm of the known? To animate and vitalise the world of things we know with the thrill of the unknown? Or take
Averini’s suggestion that the gaze of true Brazilians is ‘jungle-informed’,
and therefore comes to rest in the ordered interior of the Igreja de São
Francisco (rather than become dizzy). Is this not yet another attempt at
redress: the replacement of an experience of derailment, a shocking confrontation with the collapse of meaning, with the fantasy of actually being
the master of this mysterium tremendum et fascinans: they, the Europeans,
get lost in a place like this, we Brazilians are in control of this?
These attempts to overcome an initial moment of derailment, and yet
allow this derailment to linger so as to exploit its disrupting energies –
as in writing an article to undo the embarrassment of the hardening of
one’s nipples, and thus keeping those nipples centre stage – reminds me
of the discussion initiated by Roland Barthes on the interplay between
two forms of enjoyment, plaisir and jouissance.
The enjoyment that is plaisir, as Jane Gallop puts it, is ‘comfortable,
ego-assuring, recognized and legitimated as culture’ (1984: 111). It is the
pleasure of finding oneself (one’s body, one’s senses, one’s being) compatible with the scripts of culture, one’s social role or identity. It is the pleasure of experiencing that the social is a possibility, a match, rather than a
straightjacket or obstacle. Moreover, says John Fiske,
Plaisir involves the recognition, confirmation, and negotiation of social
identity, but this does not mean that it is necessarily a conformist, reactionary pleasure (though it may be). There are pleasures in conforming to the dominant ideology and the subjectivity it proposes when it
is in our interest to do so; equally there are pleasures of opposing or
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modifying that ideology and its subjectivities when they fail to meet
our interests. Insofar as people are positioned complexly in society, in
simultaneous relationships of conformity and opposition to the dominant ideology, so the form of plaisir that will be experienced will vary
from the reactionary to the subversive. (1989: 54)
The pleasure that is jouissance – which might be translated as bliss, ecstasy,
orgasm – is of another order. This enjoyment is perverse, in the sense of
‘shocking, ego-disruptive, and in conflict with the canons of culture’ (Gallop 1984: 111). Unsettling ideological assumptions and classifications, jouissance is the pleasure of evading the social order, to escape from ‘meaning’,
a liberation from the social and the socially produced self (Fiske 1989: 50).
It is beyond good and bad. Getting hard nipples when entering a church
building, I feel confident to say, pertains to this enjoyment called jouissance.
Roland Barthes is quite clear that he did not introduce the binary of
plaisir versus jouissance to slot the world of experiences into two distinctive halves. On the contrary, he introduced this opposition to enable
himself to think about its fundamental instability. ‘The distinction will
not be a source of decisive, steady classifications’, he sternly instructs his
readers (quoted in Gallop 1984: 112). Thus, jouissance not only pertains
to special, carnivalesque moments (as has often been noted) but may occur in the midst of the pleasurable activities that pertain to the notion of
plaisir, empowering the identities in the making with its energies. Taking
up Barthes’ famous example of the multiple pleasures that go into the act
of reading, Fiske argues that jouissance ‘occurs in the body of the reader at
the moment of reading when text and reader erotically lose their separate
identities and become a new, momentarily produced body that is theirs
and theirs alone, that defies meaning or discipline’ (1989: 51, italics mine).
Gallop adds that these moments never last. Jouissance ‘does not endure
but burns itself out in a “precocious” instant’. According to Barthes, ‘as
soon as it is understood ... [it] becomes ineffective, we must go on to
something else’ (1984: 112).
Coming from film studies, Vivian Sobchack’s discussion of the cinematographic experience articulates similar insights in another vocabulary: watching a movie, she writes, is too often discussed as ‘a specular
and psychical process abstracted from the body and mediated through
language’ (Sobchack 2011). Yet what is actually happening is a much fuzzier thing. ‘As the image becomes translated into a bodily response, body
and image no longer function as discrete units, but as surfaces in contact,
engaged in a constant activity of reciprocal re-alignment and inflection’
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(ibid.). Watching the movies is the ‘commingling of flesh and consciousness, the human and technological sensorium, so that meaning and where
it is made does not have a concrete origin in either bodies or representation but emerges from both’ (ibid.). Yet Sobchack too is aware of the
follow-up of this ‘commingling’ when the lights go on, and one asks one’s
friend: ‘Well, what did you think of the movie?’. There is, again, this moment of redress. Even the initial incapacity to find the right word – or
rather, the realisation that whatever word one will utter will break apart
the ‘commingling of flesh and consciousness’ of the cinematic experience
– will inevitably give way to renewed control.
What these moments do, I would say, is to infuse reality, that is, the
definitions of reality with actuality. What such discussions help us to see
is what the vacillation between derailment and redress, between plaisir
and jouissance, between flesh and consciousness produces: a renewed
sense of mastery, of regaining control, of having been lost in the vortex
yet having refound oneself anew as some-one: believer, anthropologist,
man-of-words, Brazilian, communist, world-weary-tourist, mother-ofone’s-children-and-wife-to-one’s-husband.
Conclusion
So what lesson might be drawn from this for an anthropological study of
religious architecture? My discussion of the experiential dimension of the
Igreja de São Francisco – its capacity to derail us, shake us out of the expected, disrupt our received ways of knowing and understanding – sought
to open a perspective in which religious buildings cease to be mere human
representations of the divine, maps of the world, or replicas of the cosmos. Religious buildings have a power of their own that is not illustrative
of religious knowledge already in place, but that one might call ‘ecstatic’,
in the basic meaning of ek-stasis – outside-of-itself.
The vacillation between plaisir and jouissance, consciousness and
flesh, a body of religious knowledge and the-rest-of-what-is is characteristic of many mystical traditions and techniques. What my discussion has
made clear is that experiential incursions into the realm of the numinous
– which produces experiences that are subsequently to be ‘made sense
of ’ – are not restricted to the practices of a neatly compartmentalised
‘mystical’ sub-division of a religious community. It is in aesthetics – the
‘process of en- and disabling sense impressions and a tuning and streamlining of the senses’ (Meyer 2010: 754-755) – that mystics, believers and
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mere-visitors-of-a-religious-building alike are made aware of the rest-ofwhat-is.
As William James made clear in The Varieties of Religious Experience
(1902), religions cannot do without such experiences. ‘Our impulse belief
is always what sets up the original body of truth, and our articulately verbalized philosophy is but a showy translation into formulas’ (James 1902).
And: ‘The unreasoned and immediate assurance is the deep thing in us,
the reasoned argument is but the surface exhibition ... Instinct leads, intelligence does but follow’ (ibid.). Geertz phrases it somewhat differently,
but his point about how the ethos strengthens the persuasiveness of the
worldview (and the other way around) is similar:
The ethos is made intellectually reasonable by being shown to represent
a way of life implied by the actual state of affairs which the world-view
describes, and the world-view is made emotionally acceptable by being
presented as an image of an actual state of affairs of which such a way of
life is an authentic expression. (Geertz 1993: 89-90)
This, I would say, is what architectural spaces accomplish. They ‘play’ the
visual, olfactory, auditory and tactile capacities of the visitor, and the encounter of the senses with the sensational form produces an experience
that comes to inform an embodied understanding of the divine.
Notes




I opt for the term ‘visitor’ here to underscore that in the present day and
age, a religious building such as the Igreja de São Francisco is frequented
by religious and non-religious people, users and tourists, worshippers and
sceptics, and that I see no reason to privilege religious responses to the
building.
I take world-making to be the way people go about the task of carving meaningful worlds to inhabit out of the plenum of existence.
In my thinking, which builds forth on the insights of ‘Lacanian’ scholars such
as Slavoj Žižek, Terry Eagleton and Yannis Stavrakakis, the symbolic order is
but one of the three registers through which world-making comes about: it
works with the register of the imaginary and is set off against the forces of the
Real (cf. Van de Port ).
Biaggio Talento and Helenita Hollanda, , Basílicas & Capelinhas: Um estudo
sobre a história, arquitetura e arte de  igrejas de Salvador. Salvador: Bureau.
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
A fantastic ‘virtual tour’ of the interior, using sophisticated ° photography that allows you to scan every single detail of the church, is available
on the internet: http://www.onzeonze.com.br/blog/toursaofrancisco/index.html
 Read more at: http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/davidbowmaker/worldwide//tpod.htmlixzzlbKomy
 http://moleskineletronico.blogspot.com///igreja-de-sao-franciscosalvador-ba.html
 Read more at: http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/vmcelani/s._
america_-_//tpod.htmlixzzlbKnEcOt
 Read more at: http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dhruve_anjli///tpod.htmlixzzlbLtCjX
 http://www.flickr.com/photos/tudocomfuxicos//
 Read more at: http://www.frommers.com/destinations/salvador/A.
htmlixzzlbJZSHku
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LeRoy L. Miller: www.worldu.edu/library/william_james_var.pdf]
Jay, Martin (1988) “The Rise of Hermeneutics and the Crisis of Ocularcentrism”. Poetics Today 307-326.
Leach, Edmund (1983) “The Gatekeepers of Heaven: Anthropological Aspects of Grandiose Architecture”. Journal of Anthropological Research
39 (3): 243-264.
Meyer, Birgit (2010) “Aesthetics of Persuasion. Global Christianity and
Pentecostalism’s Sensational Forms”. South Atlantic Quarterly 109 (4):
741-763.
Mitchell, M.T.J. (2005) “There Are no Visual Media”. Journal of Visual
Culture 4 (2): 257-266.
Montes, Maria Luisa (1998) “As figuras do sagrado: entre o público e o
privado”. In Lilia M. Schwarcz (ed.), História da vida privada no Brasil 4. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 63-171.
Peixoto, Fernanda (1999) “Diálogo ‘interessantíssimo’: Roger Bastide e o
modernismo”. Revista Brasileira de Ciências Sociais 14 (40).
Pinney, Christopher (1997) Camera Indica: The Social Life of Indian Photographs. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Port, Mattijs van de (2011) Ecstatic encounters. Bahian candomblé and
the Quest for the Really Real. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University
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Sobchack, Vivian (2011) “What My Fingers Knew. The Cinesthetic Subject, or Vision in the Flesh”. http://www.sensesofcinema.com/2000/5/
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Talento, Biaggio & Helenita Hollanda (2008) Basílicas & capelinhas: Um
estudo sobre a história, arquitetura e arte de 42 igrejas de Salvador.
Salvador: Bureau.
Turner, Victor (1969) The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure.
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Underwood, David K. (2002) “Toward a Phenomenology of Brazil’s Baroque Modernism”. In E.J. Sullivan (ed.), Brazil: Body & Soul. New
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Works of Penance
New Churches in Post-Soviet Russia
Tobias Köllner
Within a few decades, Russia – in Soviet times a self-declared atheist
country – experienced an astonishing religious revival, often described as
a ‘religious rebirth’ (religioznoe vozrozhdenie). Religion, formerly ‘domesticated’ (Dragadze 1993) and limited to the private sphere, reappeared in
the public. Under General Secretary Gorbachev, glasnost and perestroika
were initiated and set off two processes: economic reforms were carried
out and religious freedom was granted. For the latter, the celebration of
the millennium of the introduction of Christianity into Russia (Kievan
Rus at that time)1 is considered to be a turning point, as it marked the end
of attempts to ban the Russian Orthodox Church (roc) from the public
sphere. The social significance of religion increased, the religious infrastructure was developed, expressions of religiosity such as prayers and
processions reappeared in public, references were made to Orthodoxy on
many occasions, and there was widespread coverage of religious events
in the media. In addition, new institutions like advisory boards or committees fostered cooperation between religious, political and economic
groups. In many cases, explicit connections to pre-socialist practices and
traditions, real or imagined, have been drawn (cf. Hann et al. 2006: 6).
This finding is confirmed by Irena Borowik, who noted that the religious
revival is “above all a return to tradition” (2002: 505). The widespread
romantic picture of a religion that survived in remote places, however,
is misleading because the recent revival largely depends on religious
and political centres like Sergiev Posad, Vladimir or Moscow (BenovskaSabkova et al. 2010).
It is for this reason that I chose the city of Vladimir and its surroundings as a field site for this research. The city, the capital of the district
(oblast) of the same name, is situated about 180 kilometres east of Moscow. During the time of my fieldwork (2006-2007), the city had about
330,000 inhabitants. The number of inhabitants of the city as well as of
the district is steadily decreasing due to low birth rates and population
movements to bigger cities, mainly Moscow. Especially the villages un-
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derwent a sharp decline in population numbers after the end of socialism.
Due to worsening working conditions and low paid work, young people
often left the countryside and changed to more prestigious employment
in urban centres. Equally affected by the end of state socialism was the rural infrastructure. Institutions from socialist times such as kindergartens
and schools were closed down and churches were in a dilapidated state.
The city Vladimir itself is famous for its historical importance, and it is
often referred to as the ‘Heart or Soul of Russia’ (serdtse or dusha Rossii).
It was founded in 990 by Prince Vladimir Sviatoslavovich of Kiev (‘The
Red Sun’), and in the thirteenth century the city had been the political and
religious capital of Russia. From these early days, two churches and the
Golden Gate remain, which are on the unesco world heritage list. The
buildings are famous for the white limestone used, and therefore the period is called the ‘white-stone architecture period’. In 1238, Vladimir was
conquered by the Mongols and burned down. It was rebuilt, but the capital soon moved to Moscow (1330) and the city lost most of its former importance. Nevertheless, in post-socialist Russia, the historical importance
of Vladimir and the surrounding region was stressed again and played an
important role in the Orthodox religious revival in Russia.
The religious revival in post-socialist countries such as Russia involved
not only a return to local religious traditions but also the sudden influx
of new religious groups. The newly acquired religious freedom not only
supported traditional religions but also attracted non-traditional religious groups from other countries that challenged the position of hitherto
dominant churches (e.g. the Russian Orthodox Church). Despite religious
competition in contemporary European Russia, up to 82 of ethnic Russians claim identification with the Orthodox Christian Church (Filatov &
Lunkin 2006: 35). The actual meaning of this identification, however, is
diverse: it ranges from committed religious believers who follow the roc’s
prescriptions strictly to people who understand Orthodoxy as one possible ethnic marker of their Russianness (Borowik 2002; Filatov & Lunkin
2006; see also Hann & Goltz 2010 for notions of syncretism in Orthodoxy).
Moreover, the changes not only affected people but left heavy imprints
on the landscape as well. During the socialist period, many churches
were destroyed, fell into decline, or were used for other purposes, such
as radio stations or museums. During the time of my fieldwork, the Russian Orthodox Church was the most trusted institution in Russia (Dubin
2006: 84), and there exists a general tendency to restore former church
buildings and to erect new ones in places where churches had been before
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the 1917 Russian Revolution. A clear and tangible sign of the expansion
and strength of the roc is the impressive reconstruction of already existing churches and the building of new churches, new monasteries and
religious monuments. Compared to less than 7,000 functioning parishes
and 21 monasteries belonging to the Moscow Patriarchate in 1988, in 2011
there were nearly 30,675 parishes and 805 monasteries.2 Although these
figures cover the whole former Soviet Union, the overwhelming majority
of the Russian Orthodox parishes is situated in the Russian Federation.
In this article, I do not focus on particularities in religious architecture
in Russia but emphasise the building process, its religious interpretations
and its implications on social relations. Already from this statement it
becomes obvious that I understand the church building not as a mere
symbol but as part of a cultural process. So, if we look closer at the material domain we are able to recognise how form itself becomes “the fabric
of cultural worlds” (Miller 1998: 3). In many ways, people are able to transform resources into “expressive environments, daily routines and often
cosmological ideals: that is, ideas about order, morality and family, and
their relationships with wider society” (Miller 2010: 8). Therefore, the relationship between people and the things they construct is bound to the
cultural context and hardly separable from religious notions, social relations and moral evaluations. Here I refer to Latour (1985), who urges us
to trace the associations between the social and the material world. Thus
he defines the social as “a type of connection between things that are not
themselves social” (1985: 5, emphasis in original).
The analysis of the interaction between the social and the material
worlds has a strong tradition in anthropology, where the ‘social life of
things’ has been at the focus of research. According to Appadurai (1999),
the perception and understanding of things is not fixed but is shifting
from one notion to another in different contexts. The context, according
to Kopytoff (1999: 64), depends on the moral economy that is at stake
and is also expressed through the material used. Through this constant
shift between different notions, things can develop biographies and have
to be examined through their whole lifetime. Thus, we have to research
how materiality is incorporated and used to express different notions and
concepts.
This article draws special attention to notions of penance in the context of church constructions. In order to corroborate my arguments, I
have chosen two ethnographic examples where churches were constructed. In the first case, money was collected from Orthodox believers and
a building company received the donated money for the construction of
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the church. In another example, believers received a church building in a
dilapidated state but no money for reconstruction. In the following years,
they renovated the church on their own by contributing their time and
labour. Both examples – the labour contributions and the monetary donations to the Russian Orthodox Church – were described as forms of penance by my interlocutors. Thus both ethnographic examples show that the
material construction of a church carries important religious and social
meanings. The link between contributing labour or donating money, and
penance as a quest for the peace of one’s own soul or of the souls of one’s
relatives, was stressed by many of my interlocutors as reasons for their
engagement.
Russian Orthodox Church Architecture
As in many other cultures, an Orthodox church symbolises the structure
of the cosmos in general and the relationship between heaven and earth,
men and God in particular (Gould 2006). From the outside, a typical Russian Orthodox church is rectangular or oval, symbolising a ship and reminiscent of Noah’s Ark. The nave itself is square and often has the form
of a cross. On top of the nave or church there is one big circular dome
representing heaven. Around the world, Russian church architecture is
well-known for its onion-shaped domes, which are often covered with
gold. Inside the main dome of the church building there is the image of
God, called Pantocrator or “ruler of all”. Beside the big dome, there are
often four smaller domes. Looked at from above, the four smaller domes
are shaped like a cross and reflect the cross-shaped form of the nave (plate
8). In addition, most Orthodox churches, if money is sufficient, have a bell
tower that is located on the west side of the church.
The main axis in Orthodox churches is from east to west. In this way,
believers enter the church from the west and move to the sanctuary in
the east. The inside of the church is embellished with many images symbolising life on earth and in heaven. On the west side there are images
of martyrs and the last judgment, and on the east side there is the altar
hidden behind a screen called “iconostasis”. On the iconostasis there are
icons on display which have a particular order. Each row of icons is dedicated to one particular group of saints, apostles or prophets. Other icons
show scenes from Biblical life. In the middle of the iconostasis there are
the Holy Doors (Sviataia vrata), also called the Beautiful Gate, which are
opened during service and used for religious purposes only. The icon on
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the left side of the gate is reserved for the icon to whom the church is
dedicated, and the icon on the right side shows Jesus. The room behind
the iconostasis is used by the clergy alone or with their blessing. Great
emphasis is laid on the icons in the church. They can be found on the
iconostasis and are spread all over the church. Some of the icons are considered to be wonderworking, which is important for the prestige of the
local church and attracts visitors from far away.
Inside Orthodox churches, there are no chairs or benches. During services, orthodox believers stand or pray on their knees. This form of prayer
is also practised in front of the icons where it is common to light candles.
This ritual is said to carry the prayers to the saint who is on display on the
icon. But often the most important religious items in the church are the
relics of a saint. The relics are kept in a shrine and are venerated by believers with a kiss on the pane that hides them.
Two cases of church reconstruction
One important aspect in the context of church constructions is the religious interpretation of sinful life and the necessity of doing penance (pokaianie) in order to secure salvation (Surozhskii et al. 2005). According to
widespread Orthodox teachings, human behaviour after the Fall is always
connected to sin, and only through penance does salvation become possible (Osnovy 2000 I.2). Therefore, in most cases it is not one particular
action that requires penance but the abstract notion of sinful life after
the Fall which is relevant for all Orthodox believers. As a result, participation in church life and membership in the Orthodox community are
described as necessary preconditions for salvation, and the concept of
‘inchurchment’ (votserkovlenie) plays a pivotal role. In the narrower sense,
votserkovlenie is part of the baptism ritual and refers to the admission into
the religious community. But today it is mostly understood in the broader
sense as a lifelong process of engagement with the Church and a strict
observance of clergymen’s prescriptions.
Part of the inchurchment process for Orthodox believers is the recognition of one’s own sinfulness and the recognition of the necessity to
do penance. But like believers’ identification with Orthodoxy, the understanding of penance varies widely and depends largely on priestly advice
and interpretation. Whereas some priests and believers favour almsgiving
or donations to the Church as genuine forms of penance, others stress the
importance of loss, hardship and work. In the latter case, penance reflects
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ascetic ideals as they are practised in monastic life such as fasting, poverty
and manual labour. Therefore, help for the Church and for people in need
are, among other forms of penance, perceived and described as forms of
penance for one’s sins by Orthodox believers.
But what is noticeable is a discrepancy between an idealistic image
and everyday parish life. Although the level of religious participation and
church attendance remains low (Borowik 2002; Filatov & Lunkin 2006;
Kääriäinen & Furman 2000; Sokolova 2005), respect for religious practices such as the Eucharist (prichastie), penance and the confession (ispoved)
is high. Therefore, the construction of existing church buildings and the
erection of new ones are important as works of penance and for the establishment of new parishes. Without the intense construction activities,
the Church would have even less attendees. In this way, the construction
activities help the ROC to gain public attention, to attract believers and to
sustain existing parish communities.
Case 1: Our Lady of Kazan
When I left my field site in August 2007, the first stone was laid for a new
church to take the place of one that had been destroyed in 1970, when
a new district was built. In socialist times, the church and its cemetery
had been replaced by the eternal flame commemorating the victims of
the ‘Great Patriotic War’ (World War ii) as well as a park that formed the
newly designed centre of the district. In 2007, a new church was built situated behind the eternal flame in the park and dominating the square. The
church is dedicated to Our Lady of Kazan – one of the most important
icons in Russia. For the construction of the church, charitable contributions (blagotvoritelnost) and donations (pozhertvovanie, darenie) were
collected from the rich, most of whom were businessmen. Indeed, two
businessmen had donated 10 million rubles (about 300,000 Euros), but
this was probably still not sufficient because the expected construction
costs were 25 to 28 million rubles (700,000 to 800,000 Euros).
Gennadii was one of the entrepreneurs who supported the construction of the new church. He is in his mid-40s, a member of the local parliament faction of the United Russia Party, and runs one of the biggest construction companies in the region. In addition, he is a well-known donor
who had financed the construction of yet another church in Vladimir.
The first church was built on the site of the current cemetery of the city
and had been completed before my arrival. Nevertheless, the construction
was still mentioned among local people during the time of my research.
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The construction work had started in 2004 and the church was finished in
2005. As in the case of the second church construction, Gennadii had also
donated a considerable amount of money for the construction of the first
church, but shared the cost with several other businessmen. As reason for
the construction of the church on the cemetery, Gennadii mentioned the
following dream he had before:
I saw myself standing on a hill in white clothes. Other people stood
with me in white capes, and next to me was a white church. An endless
chain of people passed by and bowed to us showing signs of respect. A
mysterious apparition.
Later it happened, completely accidentally, that they proposed to me to
build [this church in the cemetery]. And why not? There used to be a
church there and we decided to rebuild it. Before we got involved they
had already tried to build it, about ten years earlier, but they hadn’t
succeeded. They collected some money, laid the first stone, but it led
nowhere. There was nothing, nothing worked. For this reason, when
the foundation of the church was laid, a box with holy relics [sviatye
moshchi] was included.
Later there was a meal, it was such a celebration, and the archbishop,
he said: ‘Gennadii, you can’t imagine how those people who are buried
here in this cemetery will thank you! They will pray for you [za tebia
molit’sia].’ And I remembered this dream, the endless chain of people.
And here in the cemetery, 100,000 people are buried. [...] This is what
is important to me ...
Dreams play an important role in Orthodoxy and are thought to be supernatural signs, possibly from God. Many instances can be found where the
construction of a church goes back to a dream. The explanations, then,
seem to build on traditional interpretations of church constructions. A
historical example of a dream from the Vladimir region that led to the
erection of a church is the famous Virgin Mary intercession church (pokrov na nerli). In 1155, Prince Andrei Bogoliubskii3 was on his way from
Kiev to Rostov Velikii when his horses suddenly stopped. He had to take a
rest and during the night the Mother of God appeared to him in a dream
and advised him to build a church there, which he did soon after.
In contrast to the historical example of Prince Andrei Bogoliubskii, in
the ethnographic case described here, Gennadii could make no sense of
his dream in the beginning. It was no more than a mysterious apparition
for him. Only after following the remark from the archbishop, who is his
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confessor and spiritual father,4 did he interpret the people in his dream
to be the ones who are buried in the cemetery. It was the archbishop who
put forward the argument that the people buried in the cemetery will
thank him and might pray for him, securing his salvation. Even some years
later, when I met Gennadii and we talked about the 100,000 people buried
there, it became obvious that he was moved and impressed by the fact that
they might pray for him and for the salvation of his soul.
But the interpretation of the dream was not the only thing given by
the archbishop. The suggestion to build the first church on the cemetery
goes back to the archbishop and the other confessors of Gennadii (“they
proposed to me”). Following their understanding, the donation for the
construction was described as a form of penance. The positive outcome
for salvation was stressed, as the people buried there would pray for him.
This shows quite clearly the importance of the relation between believer
and spiritual father. Through interpretations and suggestions, spiritual
teachers guide people’s actions advising particular codes of conduct or
particular forms of penance. But Gennadii’s example also had a material
effect: it resulted in the construction of two churches, one on the cemetery and one on the square next to the eternal flame.
When the first stone for the new church next to the eternal flame was
laid, a big ceremony was organised. In addition to Gennadii, the mayor
of the city of Vladimir, the archbishop, several high-ranking priests and
some believers took part. In the beginning, a cross was placed on the site
where later the sanctuary of the new church would be erected. During
the opening ceremony, the place of the church was demarcated in order
to show the impressive size of the building. It was announced that part of
the relics of Prince Andrei Bogoliubskii were inserted in the first stone
in order to protect the building and the construction. Afterwards, the
archbishop led a ritual with a common prayer in order to bless the activities. At the end of the ceremony, the archbishop sprinkled water on the
construction site, and every believer was invited to kiss his cross and to
receive a blessing with holy water by him. Then a procession formed and
went around the square where the church would be erected. Over the next
months, the construction was largely carried out by Gennadii’s construction company.
When I attended the official blessing and dedication of the church in
November 2008, the construction of the building was completed, but inside the church was still empty – iconostasis, paintings and icons were
still missing. But because the archbishop was pressing and the day of the
icon of Our Lady of Kazan was 4 November, the dedication took place
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on that day, before the official opening. Many people attended the ceremony and most of them arrived at least one hour before the appointed
time. Most of the attendees were elderly women from the surrounding
area who, until recently, had to go to the city centre in order to attend
church. So they were expressing their approval for the construction of a
new church in their neighbourhood.
The archbishop, the mayor, the head of the local faction of the United
Russia Party and Gennadii took part in the official opening ceremony
and gave speeches. The archbishop and the mayor thanked Gennadii
and all the other donors for their help and praised the new church. This
clearly illustrates the close connection between state and Church and
their common attempt to foster an Orthodox revival. When the mayor
mentioned Gennadii’s name, he asked him to step forward in order to
introduce himself to the crowd. Gennadii than talked briefly about the
work of building the church and the problems they faced, but seemed to
be glad when he stepped back down again. Afterwards, the archbishop
led a prayer and carried out the blessing of the church with holy water,
followed by a procession around the church. Towards the end of the official ceremony, the archbishop again expressed his gratitude and gave
an icon (Our Lady of Kazan) to Gennadii as a gift. Gennadii thanked him
and stressed the importance of this church for the people in this district
of the city. Although Gennadii appeared to dislike the publicity, he gave
interviews to tv and radio stations as well as to newspaper reporters attending the event.
Here, the political dimension of church constructions becomes obvious. Although the first steps to support Orthodoxy were already taken
under Boris Yeltsin’s presidency,5 the policy of favouring the Russian
Orthodox Church came to a climax under Vladimir Putin’s presidency.
During his first and second presidency (2000-2008), Putin not only used
every possibility to show himself as a devout believer but also managed
to arrange for substantial financial support to the roc, despite state and
church being separate according to the constitution. How secular nationstates and modern religious movements impinge on one another in a more
general context is shown by Talal Asad (2003), who noted that the secular
and the religious are mutually constitutive. In Russia, one way of supporting the Church is to declare its church buildings architectural heritage,
which enables the roc to receive state funding for their reconstruction.
Nevertheless, the Church is still highly dependent on donations from private businessmen, a development which is very much enhanced by the
state. And due to the fact that the economy and politics in Russia are still
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very much entangled, many businessmen participate in order to enhance
their position in society (Burawoy & Verdery 1999: 14; Humphrey 2002: 7;
Humphrey & Mandel 2002: 12f ).
Case 2: A poor man’s church
But not all parishes receive money from rich businessmen, and the parishioners sometimes start reconstruction work on their own. Again, notions of penance are important and work for the Church is described as
activity in order to secure one’s salvation. This happened in one of the
small settlements near my main field site Vladimir, where a church was
restored in this way. Over the course of several months, a group of about
30 parishioners spent very little money but exerted a lot of effort in order
to carry out the work. The group – two-thirds of whom were women and
one-third men – met on weekends to work and to hold services; sometimes they met more frequently.
Until the construction work started, the settlement had no active parish community and no church that was working. As my informants told
me, collective religious life in the settlement was restricted to irregular
events because a priest was missing too. Most of the inhabitants were
elderly people, as most of the younger ones had moved or wanted to leave
to the nearby city of Vladimir. This is a common trend in Russia because
the formerly active life in rural settlements is steadily declining. Often
former houses of culture and shopping as well as childcare facilities are
closed down or used for other purposes. This is a consequence of decreasing work opportunities and declining levels of income. As a result, most
of the young people and especially families have left or want to leave the
settlement.
Those who stayed had very different backgrounds and had limited mutual contact, because most villagers were oriented towards the nearby city.
The situation changed considerably when a new priest moved to the town.
In the beginning, people met in his private house and held services there.
In this way he established contact with most people in the settlement and
they, in return, held him in high respect. Later, he made use of his influence and suggested the existing church building be reconstructed. This
church was not used in socialist days and had fallen into decline. Because
no big enterprises were situated in the settlement and there were no rich
people, the priest proposed to make use of the joint labour force for the
construction. In his description of the construction, he explicitly drew on
Orthodox notions of penance and described the construction work as one
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possible step to salvation that is blessed by him and the Orthodox clergy.
Here it is important to note that a blessing in this context is a clear advice
to believers who try to follow clergymen’s prescriptions.
But not only the religious dimension was important because most people in the community welcomed the idea, as it opened a new perspective
for community life in the settlement. In particular, those whom I talked to
stressed the work of penance for the Church and praised the close community feeling that arose during the collective activities. This community
feeling also provided a reason for people who did not live in the small
town to join in with the work. Besides the work, there were church services and common meals (trapeza). During my research, the reconstruction
work came to an end and from then on only occasional repairs were necessary. These repairs were mainly done by a few men and not by the whole
group. As a result, the group cohesion changed because people now met
mainly during the church services, and the priest sometimes complained
that people were too loud: “The church is not for conversations but for
prayers!” But those who took part in the reconstruction still form a strong
group within the parish, as one can see from their frequent interactions.
Within the group of labourers, I had the closest contact with Igor, who
is about 40 years old. I got to know him through an acquaintance of mine
who worked as a teacher in a religious school of Vladimir but lived in a
nearby village next to Igor’s. Igor had studied theology at St Tikhon academy in Moscow for three years, but since he had to provide money for his
wife and their four children he could not finish his degree. He worked as
a driver but still wanted to finish his studies. Igor underlined the importance that working for the Church has for him. He perceived this work as
the fulfillment (ispolnenie) of the Ten Commandments and stressed the
penitential aspect of manual labour for the Church. Working for the roc,
according to Igor, brings special grace (blagopoluchnyi) to one’s afterlife.
For him, hard work was part of an ascetic lifestyle, like fasting which he
also observes.
One day Igor and I were standing not far from the church and he said:
“See, this is our church – not the most beautiful but built with tears.” His
statement clearly reflects his pride in the fact that the group managed
to reconstruct the church without any external help. In his view, other
churches may be nicer, but this is ‘our church’ (nasha tserkov) and it has
a special meaning for him – as a material building for service and prayer,
and for the effort they needed to build it. He points to the penitential
aspect of the project when he says that the church is built ‘with tears’, reflecting the hardship of their work.
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Conclusion
To conclude, let me stress again that this article is less concerned with
the architecture of religious buildings than with the religious, moral and
social underpinnings of the construction activities and its implications
for local relations. First, it is important to note that both donations to
the construction of churches and the manual labour for the building of
churches are understood to be acts of penance for one’s sins. Thus the
idea of church construction is intimately linked to religious notions of
penance. Following clergymen’s prescriptions, every Orthodox believer is
eager to attract God’s grace and to secure salvation through different acts
of penance. Donations as well as labour for the Church are considered to
be very successful means of penance by Orthodox believers. But not only
believers were eager for church constructions, they were also welcomed
by clergymen who give such advice to their confessors.
Small wonder, then, that the construction of churches is among the
most widespread acts of penance in contemporary Russia. However, in
both ethnographic examples given in the text above, the role of the spiritual father for the interpretation of sin and for the decision to construct a
church as act of penance was important. The religious penance of believers, then, depended less on axiological teachings of the Russian Orthodox
Church and more on the exegesis, interpretation and advice of the respective spiritual teacher. As a result, the meaning attached to religious practices of penance varied considerably, as the form of the relation between
believer and spiritual teacher varies as well.
In addition, I draw attention to the educational consequences of the
construction activity. Often the religious revival is described as if Orthodoxy survived in rural areas. However, this is misleading because even in
rural landscapes many Russians have little knowledge about Orthodoxy.
Therefore, the roc tries to attract as many believers as possible and to
teach them about Orthodox history, morality and religious understandings. Through church construction, many Russians take part in parish
life and start to engage with Orthodoxy for the first time in their lives. In
this way they learn a lot about Orthodoxy through their participation in
the construction of the church. The knowledge acquired, however, is less
about proper construction than about Orthodoxy as such: What is sin
and why is penance important? Why are religious practices like the Lent
or pilgrimage important and what meaning is attached to them? What is
the meaning of the Orthodox calendar, when are the days of the important saints and which icons are said to protect me and my family? Often
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this knowledge is transmitted through the spiritual father or within the
parish community when contact has been established through the initial
purpose of constructing a church. Here I argue that the materiality has
been important for people to join the community, but that it transformed
its meaning and resulted in new social relations that were not intended in
the beginning.
Finally, I emphasise the difference between both forms of church construction and their implications for social relations. In the first ethnographic case, the community of donors did not know each other and
they were more or less invisible. The donation of money for the construction of the church was not necessarily linked to any active participation in parish life and vice versa. In contrast, the second case set off a
process of group formation. During the building process, a new parish
was formed and changed the social relations inside the settlement considerably. This clearly indicates that the material building and the building process had consequences for social relations inside the community
and for the emergence of new, religiously oriented, moral notions and
concepts.
Acknowledgments
Without the generous support of my wife and children and the fruitful
discussions with my former colleagues, I would never have managed to
write this article. To name just some of them, I would like to thank Chris
Hann, Bernhard Streck, Milena Benovska-Sabkova, Tünde Komáromi,
Agata Ładykowska, Detelina Tocheva and Jarrett Zigon for their support
and helpful comments on earlier versions of this article. Research and
writing for this project was made possible through funding provided by
the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany.
Notes

In , Prince Vladimir of Kiev, head of the Kievan Rus, converted to Byzantine Christianity which today is described as the ‘baptism of Russia’ (kreshchenie Rossii). In , the anniversary of the first millennium was held
and gained some government support. At the same time, churches were reopened and the implicit ban on religious propaganda in the public sphere was
lifted.
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Religious Architecture.indd 95

26-08-13 20:32:56




See the official website of the Russian Orthodox Church, http://www.mospat.
ru, accessed on  January . However, figures cited for the socialist period
have to be handled with care because no official records were kept at that
time.
Andrei Bogoliubskii (-, Andrei the God-loving) became ruler of
Vladimir, Suzdal and Rostov in . He raised the importance of Vladimir,
fortified the city and built many of the famous historic buildings like the Assumption Cathedral.
A spiritual father or teacher (dukhovnyi nastavnik) can be a priest from one
of the local churches or a monk from one of the nearby monasteries. He takes
confession and guides behaviour through advice and interpretation. The relationship to spiritual fathers is based on respect, but reflects the personal
preferences of the confessor. Often these are long-lasting relations that are
renewed again and again and require a certain degree of intimacy (see also
Köllner forthcoming).
See, for example, the law “On Freedom of Consciousness and on Religious
Associations” (O svobode sovestii i o religioznykh ob’edineniiakh) of ,
which favours Russia’s “traditional religions”.
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Ładykowska, Detelina Tocheva and Jarrett Zigon (2010) “‘Spreading
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the 1990s and 2000s], in Religioznoe praktiki v sovremennoi Rossii.
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Divining Siddhivinayak
The Temple and the City
Markha Valenta
One of the most profound effects of India’s shift since the 1980s from a
developmentalist state to a neoliberalising one has been to fundamentally
transform the role and the form of its cities. If, following in the footsteps
of Gandhi, India’s villages were long thought to hold the key to the country’s identity, values and future, today India’s cities are not only growing
phenomenally – fed by migrants and commuters from rural hinterlands
across India – but have become sites for cutting-edge global innovation in
urban capital extraction, deregulated planning, informal living, insurgent
and gated citizenship and fierce contests between an emergent middle
class with world-class aspirations and the poor whom many would like
to expel in the name of the city beautiful (Roy 2009; Roy 2011b; Benjamin
2008; Weinstein 2008; Holston 2007). Highly dynamic, creative, productive and conflicted, these are cities, as Ananya Roy (2011a) remarks so
incisively, in which neither neoliberalism nor justice are guaranteed to be
the outcome.
Ostensibly, these processes would appear to have little to do with religion. And yet, quite strikingly, in the same period that India has been
neoliberalising1, there has also been a distinct intensification of communal identity politics.2 This has not only nurtured the well-known rise of
a highly chauvinistic Hindu nationalism, but has also led more generally
to an increased visibility of religious difference in Indian cities through
divergences in forms of dress and bodily aesthetics, spectacular public
manifestations, increasing residential segregation and architectural differentiation. Despite the fact that the dramatic transformations of India’s
cities have been receiving extensive attention, this particular element of
India’s changing urban fabric has been much less studied. This is in large
part because those most interested in neoliberalisation and global cities – geographers, urbanists and sociologists – have historically had little
interest in religion, even as those who have been most interested in religion as it is lived in cities – notably, though not exclusively, anthropologists – have until recently had little interest in theorising the (global) city
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and (neoliberal) urbanity as such.3 And yet religion is deeply entangled
with the forces of urban change: not only has urban religion in India been
highly responsive to the social, economic and political spaces opened up
by neoliberal deregulation but at moments it has played a formative role
in giving shape to innovations in urban politics, forms of sociability, economic relations and the built environment. Correspondingly, existing religious formations have not only been transformed by India’s globalising
cities but have themselves contributed significantly to shaping the forms
and fabric of this new urbanity.
This chapter will look at one very specific example of such a formative
transformation: the Siddhivinayak Temple in Mumbai.4 In unpacking the
relation between this temple and its urban environment, the larger interplay between religion, politics and urbanity under neoliberalisation will
begin to be sketched. Given the short amount of space, this will not be
done exhaustively, but rather suggestively: by way of proposing the extent
to which religious buildings are shaped by and shape the city within which
they reside, the globalisation of which they partake and the neoliberal
contradictions they imbibe.
Locating Siddhivinayak
Siddhivinayak is Mumbai’s richest temple and one of its most spectacular
(plate 9), a place where Bombay, Mumbai and India both come together
and apart.5 Each day it hosts more than 100,000 visitors who come to see
and be seen by Ganesh. On Tuesdays, the most auspicious day to visit,
the number may reach 200,000.6 The anonymity of this mass of visitors,
snaking in curving lines outside the building, is regularly pierced by spectacular self-displays from famous film stars, politicians and sports icons,
some arriving barefoot and accompanied by a barrage of cameras, along
with visits from infamous rape and terrorist suspects whose movements
and prayers the media report faithfully. Visited by people from virtually
all castes, religions, classes, linguistic and regional groups, Siddhivinayak
is widely seen and presented as an iconic embodiment of Mumbai and its
cosmopolitan pluralism.
This, however, is a recent development. Siddhivinayak began as a tiny
temple in 1801, housing a small Ganesh statue and little more, continuing
in that way for a long time. Built by a childless widow, Mrs. Deubai Patil
of nearby Matunga, so that other childless women might go to Ganesh for
help, its dome was so low it was largely overshadowed from a distance by
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a grove of banana, breadfruit, drumstick and jamun trees. Inside it was so
small that there was no space for the traditional circumambulation of the
idol. For many of these early years, it had perhaps eight or nine regular
devotees, and even by 1900 it did not draw more than 125 visitors on festival days. The building itself was part of a complex covering 2,550 square
metres that included a rest house and a building in which the owner lived,
a lake built to supply water, and two tall deepmalas (light pillars). After Independence, the number of visitors began to grow, and in 1954 the temple
was rebuilt. But still it made nothing like the impression of Mahalaxmi
temple, which was far grander at the time. Yet by 1965, even as the city
itself was rapidly expanding, so many visitors were visiting the temple that
there began to be long queues. Ten years later, the crowds were so great
that it was difficult to even enter the temple and see the idol, while each
year the number of visitors continued to expand exponentially. By 1988,
plans were drawn up for a completely new structure, which was then built
in the early 1990s.
In considering how to go about drawing up a new structure, it was decided that the most exemplary predecessor was the 1,000-year old Shiva
Temple in Ambarnath. What becomes clear in comparing the two temples
with each other is that Siddhivinayak offers a tremendously modernised,
abstracted version of this classic. Most striking immediately when looking at Siddhivinayak are the smooth angularities of its rounded ridges,
which contrast strongly with the textured, highly carved, “narrative” surface of the Shiva temple. Just as striking is the fact that the Shiva temple’s
local black stone has been replaced with a lighter coloured one. In this
sense, where the historical Shiva temple at Ambernath offers a blend of
North and South Indian temple styles commensurate which its Deccan
(mid-West Indian) location, Siddhivinayak offers one of Western (post)
modernist and Eastern Deccan aesthetics: a very contemporary urban
rewriting of rural religious inheritance, deeply embedded in a particular aesthetics of neoliberal (post)modernity. This entails not only a move
from the country to the city and from the past to the present, but also – as
will be discussed below – from the (post)colonial regional to the neoliberal global, from the private to the public, from idealist politics to realist,
and from the material to the “ethereal”.
A good starting point is to consider the temple’s specific locations:
in Mumbai and in the virtual urban that is the web. In Mumbai-on-theground, Siddhivinayak is located in Prabhadevi, an area that has become
one of the prime neighbourhoods for expensive real estate. Situated in the
geographical centre of the city, Prabhadevi’s population has shifted since
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the last great mill strike of 1982 from working-class migrant mill workers to upper middle-class multinational businesses and their employees.
While many of the mill buildings still stand, they long ago stopped being
profitable and were closed down or converted to malls, restaurants and
discos, even as many of the workers have been forced to move elsewhere.
This shift in the social, material and economic logic of the neighbourhood
is crucial to understanding the place of Siddhivinayak in the city, in western India and in India at large.
The traumatic end to the strike of 1982 left 150,000 workers unemployed, pushing them into much more precarious and informal labour
and housing conditions. There has been extensive thoughtful research
on the ways in which this shaped the lives of workers and its deep significance not only to the political economy of Bombay but to its social,
economic and political development since then (to begin with, see Ramaswamy 1988; Van Wersch 1992; D’Monte 2002; Chandavarkar 2003).
Most often, however, these developments are read within a local, municipal framework, relative to the power politics of political parties, labour
unions, Communist and Hindu nationalist movements, and business interests. Just as crucial, however, as Arvind Rajagopal (2011) has argued, is
the way in which the 1982 strike – which would so change Siddhivinayak’s
neighbourhood – marked a vital shift in the political logic and method of
the Indian state after the Emergency:
In the aftermath of the Emergency there occurred a profound political reorientation of the existing model of developmental politics ... The
change meant a shift away from the Nehruvian focus on the economy as
the crucial arena of nation-building, involving labour as the key modality of citizenship. Instead, culture and community became categories
that gained political salience in the period of economic liberalization.
In the process, there was a redistribution of the places where political
conflict occurred, besides election campaigns. In the period leading to
the Emergency, industrial conflict was perhaps the key arena regulated
by the state where citizens could express dissent and organize collectively ... After the Emergency, politically significant forms of conflict
that occurred around organized labour drastically diminished and
thereafter new channels grew for the expression of conflict. (Ibid: 1005)
In extensive detail, Rajagopal documents the ways in which in the course
of the Emergency, the state decreasingly asserted and justified its political
authority through its commitment to development via economic inter-
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vention – in a nation of citizen-workers – and increasingly through its
commitment to the market and to citizens conceived as consumers making choices that would reflect their (emerging) middle class and cultural
identities. In this way, the key subject of the state began to shift from
the worker to the consuming middle class. In practical terms, this meant
that after the Emergency, the state increasingly sided with business over
labour. The effect of this on labour relations in the Bombay textile mills
and, subsequently, on the urban environment in which they were embedded and which they sustained, is all too clear. Today the mill towers, long
the distinctive mark of Prabhadevi, are increasingly over-towered by the
luxurious, exorbitantly priced skyscrapers rising all about them.
The conspicuous wealth of Siddhivinayak shows clearly the extent to
which it has managed to negotiate this shift much more successfully than
the erstwhile textile workers who for so many decades were its neighbours. Rising up even higher subsequent to their demise, Siddhivinayak
is a very impressive structure – six stories tall, with stacked ridges on the
rising outer walls that are topped by 48 gold-plated crowns on the roof
whose visual effect is that of a self-confident fortress. Inside, there is an
elevator between the large kitchen on the second floor and the sanctum
sanctorum; closed-circuit internal tv for security reasons; an it and media centre; a conference area and library; and offices for the chairman,
executive officer and others. In addition, solar panels on the roof make
the temple electrically self-sufficient. By the entry to the temple there is a
sophisticated security system, while the temple itself has its own security
personnel. In other words, in the context of Mumbai’s rather unpredictable electrical, security, welfare and communications relays, the temple
has ensured both its self-provision and self-preservation.
At the same time, the transformation of Siddhivinayak partakes of a
much more comprehensive pattern of transformation in religious buildings to be found all along the Konkan (Central West Indian) coastline.
Up until several decades ago, while there were significant monumental
religious buildings to be found throughout this area, the majority of religious buildings were small and unassuming, blending easily into their
environment. Just as the people living in the Konkan in their public life
widely shared surnames, clothes, food habits, rituals and the Marathi language irrespective of their communal identity (whether Brahmins, Kolis,
Bohras, Parsees, Jains or Jews), so their religious buildings were similarly
interchangeable (Dalvi & Dalvi 2006).7 They served first and foremost “as
functional objects for active reverence, not as iconic image builders for a
particular community”. On the exterior, they include no overt symbols of
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faith “and one could easily be mistaken for another”. Only their interior
spaces differ: it is only once one enters that one sees whether one is in a
mosque, temple, derasar, agiary or synagogue. They are preeminently domestic in style, contemplative, urbane, syncretic and self-similar, not only
to each other, but to the residential housing around them.
In the last thirty years, however, the style of religious architecture has
begun to change drastically through the combined effects of new wealth,
new building materials and new identity politics. In a highly unregulated
and ad-hoc fashion, the domestic (public) religious buildings are being
razed and displaced by distinctive monumental ones that not only tower
over the surrounding streets but clearly advertise their religious affiliation. Burgeoning real estate prices throughout the area, driven by developments in Bombay/Mumbai, have led to a ferocious property rush and
building boom. Many residents read this as a sign of upward mobility, an
“upgrade in one’s living condition and environment”. From the perspective of heritage and urban cohesiveness, however, these new buildings constitute a drastic rupture marked by “monumental shikharas, minarets or
domes all built in the technology of reinforced concrete, all expressing a
larger than life semantic, quite without aesthetic precedent, where big is
big for its own sake”. This is a transformation that is rarely self-reflexive –
relative to the heritage that is being abandoned – even as it is intensely aspirational. Notably, this is the same process that much residential housing
is undergoing, even as this process of architectonic erasure and displacement by contemporary monumentality is to be seen far beyond the Konkan, throughout India and Asia more generally.8 In other words, the very
monumentality of Siddhivinayak makes it quite un-exceptional and highly
representative of the urban transformations in which it is embedded.
This is the case not only with regard to its monumentality but also
its self-sufficiency. Indeed, Siddhivinayak functions very much like the
host of gated communities that have been springing up throughout the
city – that is, the modernity, wealth and imposing size of Siddhivinayak
and those of the new high-rise apartment buildings pushing up around it
both literally and metaphorically reflect back on each other. This effect
is heightened by the fact that apartments in those high-rises are literally
advertised as having a “temple view”. Darshan from your kitchen window! In exchange we could say, for the cosmopolitan, elite “darshan” the
new developments themselves lend the temple in their midst. Likewise
the apartment in the building next door that has a direct view of Ganesh
in the sanctum sanctorum sells for a higher price than the neighbouring
apartments, despite their equal physical proximity to the temple. More
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generally, all the advertising boards in the vicinity of the entrance to Siddhivinayak focus on financial services related to taxes and investment and
the production of capital wealth.9 Within this urban space, then, Enlightenment, status, wealth and security reflect on each other, both literally
and metaphorically – called into life by a flurry of gazes from worshippers, passers-by, drivers on the road, upper-class neighbours, Bollywood
stars and politicians – gazes all being cast simultaneously at Ganesh while
seeking to receive his eyes and watching each other.
Transmitting Siddhivinayak
Indeed, Siddhivinayak has been incredibly resourceful and creative in
finding as many ways as possible to multiply the transmission of darshan10 to as many people as possible, including through the gold on its
roof that is said to transmit darshan to those passing by far away in cars.
This innovation is particularly noteworthy since the Shiva temple at Ambarnath on which Siddhivinayak is modeled is distinctive for not having
a roof. In the process, Siddhivinayak itself benefits from the waiting people’s effect and affect – the effect of masses of people as an iconic image
of the demotic in its everyday guise (as a crowd) waiting in line at Siddhivinayak’s doorway. That is, Siddhivinayak’s representative status for
the city does not come from its close relation to the mills and its workers that were the industrial heart of Bombay but rather derives from the
temple’s ability today to mobilise people of all classes and backgrounds
from across the city, the nation and the world to come to its courtyard
and to pass their money and gold through the temple’s coffers. The internet and India’s non-resident diasporic business and migrant communities (especially in the us and Canada) play a crucial role here. While
Siddhivinayak stays in place – in fact, asserts its presence, authority and
importance through its quite impressive ability to embody, enclose and
remain unmoved in space – its survival depends on the massive movement of people, money, images, sounds, exchanges and worship. At the
same time, the (individualised) movie stars and politicians who visit the
temple, and in the process bypass the waiting masses on their way to the
fast-track vip entrance for the rich and famous, only further reinforce
the demotic nature of the crowd. There is a mirroring and an echoing
back and forth between the “religious” darshan transmitted via Ganesh
by the Siddhivinayak temple and the economic, political, celebrity and
demotic “darshan” transmitted in turn to Siddhivinayak temple when it
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takes in and becomes the object of what we might call the “charismatic
aura” of its everyday and privileged visitors.
In line with this, Siddhivinayak temple has hired one of the foremost it
companies in India to create and run its internet site. On the website they
have a live darshan (viewing of the aarti ritual when the light of lit wicks
is offered to Ganesh) that is webcast which gets 4 million hits a month.
In addition, there is online booking of pujas (prayer rituals) and delivery
of prasad (sweets consumed by devotees after first being offered to the
deity) both within India and abroad (via FedEx or other courier services).
There are several ways that patrons can make donations to the temple:
Union Bank of India, IndusInd Bank, BillDesk, icici Bank nri Services,
Remit2India, Itz Cash or Wallet 365. The temple has tie-ups with most of
the major cellphone companies in the country for text alerts of prayers
and aartis, downloads of Lord Ganesh wallpapers, ringtones, logos, ecards and so on. In addition to the website and phone collaboration, the
first popular film featuring Siddhivinayak temple has just been brought
out and was promoted by the cricket star Sachin Tendulkar. Last but not
least, the early morning rituals at the temple are at times broadcast live
on television, also at Mumbai airport, making darshan available to all the
travelers streaming by and through, allowing them in theory to carry its
effect far into the rest of the world. In other words, the temple’s ability
to mobilise the bodies and the contributions of worshippers who come
to receive darshan from Ganesh is complemented by its ability to mobilise disembodied elements of itself through the ether and through the
vast electronic networks that circulate a rather spectral form of financial
wealth (whose movements we at moments understand as little as we understand, with any surety, the divine).
At the same time, the temple’s success also depends on its trustees understanding the changing logic by which such mobilisation takes place. As
in other successful urban temples in contemporary India, Siddhivinayak’s
guardians and trustees have been highly astute religious entrepreneurs
making full use of India’s dynamic socio-economic, political, cultural and
religious fields to transform the temple into a blessing on – and a generator of – tremendous wealth through the most modern technological,
financial and celebrity relations. This includes as well their ability to negotiate with a state increasingly seeking to incorporate, rationalise and
milk religious institutions by asserting the preeminence of state authority
over religious authority. This they continue to do successfully. In the process, Siddhivinayak’s trustees have gone so far as to displace the original
shrine, twice, along with the hereditary temple guardian who, it is said,
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languishes around the corner. In other words, the better Siddhivinayak
mobilises, the better it can stay in place and the better it can displace the
“Siddhivinayaks” and guardians that preceded it: architectonically, socially, economically and politically.
Contesting Siddhivinayak
Now I want to focus on one specific moment in January 2007 when a
small but strident Hindu nationalist group called the Hindu Janajagruti
Samiti (hjs) held a demonstration outside Siddhivinayak Temple.11 They
were protesting a law newly proposed by the Maharashtra Law Commission that would give the state government control of Hindu temples and
religious institutions. The ostensible motivation for the law had been a
stampede at another temple during which more than 200 people were
killed. While the state asserted that control of temple arrangements
would allow it to better ensure the safe organisation of mass events, the
possibility of gaining access to generous flows of religious donations
could not help but play an important role as well. Rather than appreciating the support of the hjs, however, the chairman of the Siddhivinayak
Temple Trust – Subhash Mayekar – left his office on the third floor to
come outside and forcefully chase the demonstrators away. He asked
them why they were provoking people and why they were waving black
flags “when the Trust did so many good deeds for society and for children”.
It was in fact “the hjs that was oppressing Hindus”, Mayekar told them,
by hindering the good work the temple does and, implicitly and more
generally, through their nationalist orthodoxy. “Our temple is open to
followers of all religions.” One of the demonstrators then responded that
everyone had been reading about the Trust’s mismanagement of funds,
it had been in all the papers and the hjs had spread this information far
and wide. Mayekar, meanwhile, upped the ante by threatening to “issue
final notice to” the demonstrators.
What initially might have been a protest by the Hindu nationalist hjs
on behalf of the temple trust turned out to be as much a protest against
the trust as it was against the proposed law. And what had appeared to
be a political-religious issue turned out to be as much an economic one.
Some years earlier, in fact, the (much larger) Hindu nationalist vhp had
helped to instigate a formal investigation of the Siddhivinayak trusts’ dispensation of temple funds. Crucially, this was four years after the (Hindu
nationalist) Shiv Sena chairman of the trust had been replaced by an ap-
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pointment from the Congress Party. This investigation revealed explicitly
what everyone knew: that there was no oversight or procedural discipline
for allotting temple money. Correspondingly, significant funds had been
directed to the funds of organisations belonging to powerful political
figures at the local and state level and were used to cover the expensive
medical treatments of others.
Notably, controversies about the misappropriation of temple funds are
widespread across India today, just as economic controversy has been
endemic to the politics of temples since colonialism. As Jackie Assayag
(1990) has argued, it was precisely in seeking to achieve a rupture between
the “religious”, on the one hand, and the “economic” and “political” on the
other hand, that colonial authorities exhibited their blindness to – and
became entangled in – “networks formed by solidarities, as well as by
conflicts”. This was a process that reified temples as institutions, what we
might call a form of institutional fetishism. That is, the colonial authorities treated temples as independent establishments (which they were not
by any means) in need of being “made uniform according to a common
(ecclesial) model” while simultaneously assuming their administration. In
the process, they certainly transformed temples, their place in society and
their functioning. Yet at the same time, in becoming the manager of the
Hindu temple,
... the secular and democratic State assumed administration of a patrimonial institution ... [that] continued to be largely based on a hierarchical social order in which power is determined by status, the exact opposite of the socio-political principles governing modern politics. (79)
In other words, in the very process of “reforming” temple administration and claiming authority over it, the colonial State incorporated into
its system of governance an entity organised according to principles and
processes deeply at odds with a secular, democratic order. Once the postcolonial State took over where the colonial State had left off, India took
over this fundamental contradiction. And this is what we see at play here,
with the hjs deploying democratic means to critique the temple’s failure
of democratic and bureaucratic justice. Needless to say, the hjs makes use
of democratic logic and repertoires instrumentally, the better to further
its own un-democratic, Hindu-nationalist ends.
The activities of the hjs are part of a much broader – national, international and transnational – rise in nationalist populism that we are
seeing on every continent across the globe. Crucially, such mobilisation

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is meant to displace established elites while securing the privileges of
national(ist) culture. This process is realised through the global mobilisation of political, economic and ideological networks in the interests of
establishing a new local elite, advertised as loyal to indigenous demotic-vernacular culture, history and people. This process entails by and
large – in places as distant from one another as Holland, South Africa,
the United States and India – the incorporation and “solidification” of
formerly politically irrelevant and diffusely marginal, under-educated,
“native” populations as coherent audible and visible collective players
or identities in the democratic process. Such mobilisation generates significant socio-political instability, even as it is carried out in the name
of restraining or reversing the illicit and dangerous mobilities of elites
and aliens (with regards to everything from money, to sex, to loyalty). In
other words, populist mobilisation is a mobilisation that masks its own
process of bringing-into-motion and the irreversible socio-political and
cultural transformations this creates by claiming to speak in the interests
of a past and a culture that through populist mobilisation are constituted
as immobile.
Critically, with regard to the issue of populist nationalism, Siddhivinayak Temple has invested a tremendous amount in promoting pluralism
as one of its defining and authorising qualities. Perhaps the most sensitive, critical example is the fact that when the temple was comprehensively expanded and renovated in the early 1990s, it hired Muslim artists to
carve the frame (Makhar) of the sanctum sanctorum. On its internet site,
the temple presents this as an “interesting ... inter-religious aspect” and
proudly notes that these artisans have also worked in Mecca and Medina.
Subsequently, in the next sentence it then mentions that the crown of the
temple was made by a Marathi artisan. The building, then, is presented as
literally carrying within its body – through not only the religious identity
but also the religion-specific styles – the skills and traditions of the craftsmen who made it, the very pluralism that it celebrates in its visitors, and
by implication in Mumbai as a whole.
Significantly, however, at the same time as the temple goes out into the
world – even presenting itself as encompassing the world – it protects
itself from that world. A few years ago, after an attack on another temple,
it secured itself by building a tall “wall” around its premises, thoroughly
disrupting and preventing the movement of pedestrians, in order to prevent possible terrorist attacks. In addition, the temple has airport-like security and scanning devices at its entrance and an internal cctv system
to monitor all visitors continuously. Regular devotees furthermore have
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the option of using a biometric identity card in order to gain quicker entry
– much like the privileged fast-track border passages at airports. A further security measure involves the temple working together with Israeli
security to train its very own security personnel. This is in line with the
general interest in Mumbai for Israeli security measures: a trip was recently made to study the Israeli airport in order to apply those principles
in Mumbai. This is an extension of the extremely close intelligence and
military collaboration between India and Israel (and America). So there
is a critical slippage here between the logic of the international airport,
the logic of (in)security and violence when traveling, and the logic of the
temple. On the one hand, there is the transmission of darshan to the airport, and more generally the international dispersion of darshan much
like the airport’s international dispersion of travellers. At the same time,
the temple takes on the safeguarding – visually, structurally and procedurally from the airport – as that safeguarding is being heavily shaped by
the safeguarding in Israel, in its conflict with the Palestinians, and more
generally by the American war on terror.12 So we see here that Siddhivinayak temple, in the process of elaborating on the long history of Ganesh
worship in India, inserts itself into global economic, telecommunications,
media and security circuits as these are being shaped by international
geopolitics.
Energising Siddhivinayak
One of the most important points here – if we consider Siddhivinayak in
relation to the growth of national and transnational circuits of populist
nationalism since the 1980s – is that the popularity (and wealth) of Siddhivinayak as a temple was growing in parallel with that of Shiv Sena.
At the very moment that the Shiv Sena was ascending on a platform of
fierce anti-immigrant and anti-Muslim rhetoric and violence – in fact,
at the very moment this exploded in the Mumbai riots of 1992/93 – Siddhivinayak was built in an explicitly syncretic, modern “Bombay” style.
The tremendous appeal of this temple to both the elite – politicians from
all sides of the spectrum (including Bal Thakeray himself, the charismatic
head of the Shiv Sena) to actors and businessmen – and the masses from
within and beyond Bombay suggests that when considering the transformation of Bombay into Mumbai, what is involved is the simultaneous rise
of a chauvinistic and cosmopolitan Hindu religious politics. At moments
in tension with each other, as in the conflict between the temple and the

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hjs, there is also a crucial relation of overlap, intrication, shared audiences and occasions of visiting.
We have become very much used to (and invested in) opposing “Bombay” and “Mumbai” in our narration of the city’s development through
time – and this opposition is with good reason when we consider the
amount of violence, blood, death, dispossession and increasing segregation that is pulling apart the city. But it is as important to also invest in an
understanding of their ongoing simultaneity. Rather than “Bombay” stopping when “Mumbai” began, “Bombay” is alive and well to this day. The
critical point, then, is that the site of Bombay has shifted from the “secular” tout court. The advent of “Mumbai” marks not the defeat of cosmopolitanism as such but the partial exhaustion of secularism as the means
to urban, globalised cosmopolitanism. Instead, we see that the energy –
the site of innovation and mobility – has shifted to the religious in all its
variations: the chauvinistic, the elite, the inclusive and the grassroots, the
material and the ‘ether-real’.
At the same time, notwithstanding the temple’s demotic success, its
global dispersal of spiritual enrichment and its explicit (international)
ideology of multicultural tolerance, it also reenacts and sustains highly
undemocratic, local structures of inequality, dispossession and impoverishment that it inherited from Bombay, as well as the ones to which
liberalised, corporatised, multi-financed Mumbai gives birth. Much of
the violence here is neither physical nor consciously directed and in fact
contradicts much of the explicit intent of the temple but emerges through
the temple’s success at positioning itself in contemporary, transnationally
mobile spiritual, celebrity and real estate circuits according to a logic of
visual and political consumption.
Speaking more generally, this suggests that we reread the history of the
city not as the ascendancy of modern secular urbanity – nor as the secularisation, conversion and rationalisation of the backward (rural) migrant
as it is so often read – but as the messy assemblage of the secular and the
religious, as these contest and elaborate the present and the past, the self
and the other, the here and there continually in relation to each other.
In this way, Siddhivinayak allows us to attempt to read democratic liberty and its violence in relation to our world’s mobile religious, economic
and demotic technologies. Traveling with great energy, setting foot on the
ground at sites far and near, such technologies time and again feed upon
the structural interplay between equality, (dis)possession, consumption
and desire in our brave new world.
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Notes




The concept of neoliberalisation is notoriously slippery and contradictory.
For the discussion in this chapter, the recent work of Neil Brenner, Nik Theodore and Jamie Peck has been particularly useful. See especially Neil Brenner
and Nik Theodore (); Jamie Peck (); Jamie Peck, Nik Theodore and
Neil Brenner (); and Neil Brenner ().
On the relation between neoliberalisation and religious politics, see Arvind
Rajagopal () and Stuart Corbridge and John Harriss (). The literature on Hindu nationalism is extensive. For an overview, see Christophe Jaffrelot (). See also, Thomas Blom Hansen () and ().
So while there exists a wide and growing range of anthropological studies of
urban religious communities, sites and practices, these largely refrain from
considering how this transforms our understanding of contemporary urbanity. The city essentially forms the setting and background to the study of
religious community, sociability and politics. In this way, theories of urban
change and studies of urban religion have largely led separate lives. Yet there
are quite interesting possibilities from within anthropology for relating these
fields, particularly in terms of those anthropologists addressing neoliberalism and cities. The work of Comaroff and Comaroff () on millennial
capitalism as a form of culture rife with enchantment, magical thinking and
casino relations offers fruitful opportunities for thinking through what we
might call millennial urbanism; Loïc Wacquant’s more structural conception of neoliberalisation as the re-deployment of the state in the interest of
impressing the market on the citizen (, ) – a process that engenders a glorification of the penal and practices of urban seclusion – offers us
the means to consider how urban space and relations are being transformed
through governments of insecurity that criminalise (Muslim) religious identities, sacralise consumption and desecrate the collective and the public;
while Aihwa Ong’s work on neoliberalism () as a highly versatile tool
of governance, subjectivity and subjectification has explicitly engaged both
religion and cities, though not the relation between these two. These discussions cannot be incorporated here, but they are a very useful reminder of the
variety of “religious” processes at work in neoliberalisation relative to the
sociability, geography and governance of cities.
This paper is part of a long-term project on the politics of religion in postcolonial port cities – strategically juxtaposing Mumbai, New York and Amsterdam – in relation to globalisation and neoliberalisation. The substantive
focus of this project is on religious buildings that range from the iconic to
the (semi-)invisible, while the theoretical engages the politics of religion

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


under neoliberal urbanity. The argument being presented in this chapter,
then, draws on research, thinking and writing that I am also doing on New
York and Amsterdam, but which for reasons of space cannot be elaborated
here. During this time, I have done significant research on Siddhivinayak and
Mumbai as presented in national and local media and (more recently) social
media and, over the past four years, have visited Mumbai six times, each time
for ten to fourteen days, during which I frequented Siddhivinayak and other
religious buildings regularly, as well as talking extensively to a wide range of
scholars, journalists, activists, students, writers and many others I encountered during my work and travels in Mumbai. Since my concern centres on
the dynamic relation between religion, politics and global neoliberalisation
as this takes place through the built environment rather than on the experiences of pilgrims and worshippers as such, I have not conducted ethnographic fieldwork in the temple itself. My concern instead is with the ways in which
the actual building “performs” religion relative to the politics, economics,
bodies and desires shaping and being shaped by Mumbai more broadly. See
Markha Valenta ().
“Mumbai” displaced “Bombay” as the name of the city in , in a shift that
remains incomplete and contested. Carried out under the government of the
Hindu nationalist and Marathi populist Shiv Sena, the transformation was
meant to indicate a break with the colonial past and a strengthening of Marathi identity (Mumbai is the capital of Maharashtra, and roughly  of the
city’s population speaks Marathi as its first language). In many formal and
informal accounts of the city, however, “Bombay” is deeply felt to encompass
a heritage of pluralism, tolerance and urban comfort that is now experienced
as making way for a city riven by communalist tensions, dramatically inadequate infrastructure, shrinking public space, nouveau riche vulgarity, rapacious extraction, political failure, out-of-control migration, environmental
degradation and increasing criminality. In my reading of the history of Bom/
Mum/bay/bai, these are not so much sequential urban modes but have been
simultaneous from its earliest years. What shifts over time are the ways in
which they have been given form and their dynamic relation to each other.
This argument will be suggested here, while I am developing it more fully
elsewhere.
There are no exact figures for the number of visitors to Siddhivinayak, but
these figures are widely cited in media reports, newspaper articles and informal conversations with journalists and others.
My discussion here is strongly indebted to the research and findings of Dalvi
& Dalvi. The document in my possession contains no pagination, so no page
numbers are noted after citations.
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
Much has been written on this development. For an overview, see William S.
Logan (). For an incisive and influential specific study, see Ackbar Abbas
().
 This was the case on the multiple occasions that I visited.
 Darshan, or ‘blessing’, literally means ‘sight’ or ‘vision’, and can be defined as
the moment of interaction between the devotee and the devoted.
 This account is based on the account given on the website of the hjs ( January ). The account is credited to the local Mumbai (Marathi/Hindi web)
newspaper Dainak Sanatan Prabhat. Unfortunately, no other media group
seems to have reported on this event. Nonetheless, it is worth using because
while some details in the account might vary from how other participants
remember or experienced it, the general story line is a familiar one not only
within India but also relative to the ways in which the politics of multiculturalism and populism have confronted each other across class lines in the
Netherlands. It is precisely this dynamic in multicultural politics in world
cities that my larger project is tracing, though more extensive research will be
necessary to determine the precise ways in which this dynamic overlaps and
diverges at these very different sites, Amsterdam and Mumbai. For now, the
account here – read as something between fact and allegory – is sufficient to
make the argument I present.
 The  attack on Mumbai has been critical in this regard but cannot be
discussed here except to mention the vital point that attacks were on homologous sites which, like Siddhivinayak, combined transnational streams of
mobility, iconicity, performativity: the Taj Mahal hotel, Chhatrapati Shivaji
Terminus Railroad Station (Victoria or “vc”) and the Jewish Chabad centre.
References
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
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Chandavarkar, Rajnarayan (2003) The Origins of Industrial Capitalism in
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Plate 1
The interior of the Downside Abbey Church
Richard Irvine
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Plate 2
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The drawing prepared by Archibald Dunn and Edward Hansom
(1870s), complete with processions of tonsured monks, demonstrate
the medievalist imagination at work
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Plate 3
The Essalam mosque in Rotterdam-South
Pooyan Tamimi Arab
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Plate 4
The Essalam mosque in Rotterdam-South
Oskar Verkaaik
Plate 5
The Essalam mosque is located near major highways and railways
connecting Rotterdam to the South of the Netherlands
Oskar Verkaaik
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Plate 6
The altar of the Igreja de São Francisco
Mattijs van de Port
Plate 7
Detail of the ornamentation in the Igreja de São Francisco
Mattijs van de Port
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Plate 8
The Assumption Cathedral in the center of Vladimir, Russia
Tobias Köllner
Plate 9
The Siddhivinayak Temple in Mumbai
Markha Valenta
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Plate 10 Postcard of the ruins of the former Djenné Mosque
Photographer Edmond Fortier, circa 1906, just before the reconstruction of the existing mosque;
photographic reproduction courtesy of the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Leiden
Plate 11 Postcard of the reconstructed Djenné Mosque published after World
War Two
Photographic reproduction courtesy of the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Leiden
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Plate 12 East elevation and floor plan of the Djenné Mosque
Reproduced from Djenné: chef-d’œuvre architectural (1992) with kind permission from
Pierre Maas and Geert Mommersteeg
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Plate 13 Squadrons of boys delivering basket-loads of mud for re-claying the
Mosque
Trevor Marchand
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Plate 14 Re-claying the Djenné Mosque
Trevor Marchand
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Plate 15 An early stage in the aktc restoration works
Joseph Brunet-Jailly
Plate 16 View of the restored Djenné Mosque
Joseph Brunet-Jailly
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Plate 17 View on Albaicin from the Alhambra; the new mosque of Granada
is in the center in between the church of San Nicolas (left) and the
convent (right)
Oskar Verkaaik
Plate 18 The mihrab of the new mosque of Granada
Oskar Verkaaik
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Plate 19 The façade of the Florence synagogue
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Plate 20 Woking Mosque original drawing
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Plate 21 Wimbledon Mosque
Shahed Saleem
Plate 22 Ghamkol Shariff Mosque, Birmingham
Shahed Saleem
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Plate 23 Fazl Mosque, Southfields London
Shahed Saleem
Plate 24 Regent’s Park Mosque
Shahed Saleem
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The Djenné Mosque
World Heritage and Social Renewal in a West African Town
Trevor H.J. Marchand
Following a historical and architectural overview of the Djenné Mosque,
this chapter raises questions of ownership and control of cultural heritage. The Djenné Mosque is reputed to be the largest single mud structure in the world, and each year during the dry winter season the town’s
population festively re-plasters its surfaces in an exhilarating one-day
ceremony. Traditionally, an auspicious date for the ceremony was agreed
upon by a group of wise and trusted elders, and the association of masons
lent their blessing. In 2005, however, control over scheduling the event
was assumed by a festival planning committee with vested interests in
attracting foreign tourists and international development aid to Djenné.
The Aga Khan Trust for Culture (aktc) is one such donor, and in 2009
they oversaw a massive conservation project for the mosque, stripping
its walls, roof and buttresses of accumulated layers of plaster in order to
restore the building to its “original” form and to address points of structural weakness. Debates and discussions ensued among conservationists,
material scientists and town residents over the long-term preservation of
the building, and it was rumoured that one group of foreign experts even
proposed the application of a more permanent protective layer that would
render the annual re-plastering ceremony obsolete.
Based on ethnographic research, this chapter will argue that such scientific solutions and Western-framed conservation agendas neglect the
important social function played by the communal re-plastering effort.
The annual ceremony renews bonds among the town’s citizens and between the various town quarters. It also provides an important forum for
youth to learn about their architectural heritage and religious identity,
and it introduces young men to basic building techniques that they can
apply in the upkeep of their own homes. In sum, the Djenné Mosque is
more than a place for Muslim prayer or an object of architectural interest: rather, it is the focal point around which Djenné society, identity and
knowledge has been continually renewed and reinforced. According to
Djenné master mason Konbaba Tennepo: ‘Each year the people of Djenné
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congregate to re-plaster the mosque, and the event rekindles love and understanding between them. I don’t want that to stop. If you replace the
mud plaster with tiles or cement, it will all stop! But with mud, people have
in mind that they must come back, from wherever they are, to participate.’1
The contents of this chapter are based on published material, my long
fieldwork with the masons of Djenné conducted between 2000 and 2002,
and on data gathered during many subsequent visits to the town, including documentary film shoots in 2005 and 2012.2 I first visited Djenné as
a traveller in 1989. At that time, Mali was only just beginning to emerge
from two decades of devastating drought. President Moussa Traoré continued to control the country with an iron grip, and travel was difficult at
best. It was possible, however, for non-Muslims to visit the mosque and,
for a small fee paid to its guardian, to access the roof and delight in the
panoramic view over the (then meagre) offerings of the Monday market.
When I returned 11 years later I found hand-painted signs posted at the
bottom of each staircase to the mosque reading ‘Entrée Interdit aux nonMusulmans’. The popular explanation for this change in policy was that
a European photographer had been granted permission by local authorities to conduct a fashion shoot, but the models were caught scandalously
changing costumes inside the mosque. Allegedly this violation of Djenné’s
most sacred space nearly resulted in a riot, and the strict exclusion of
non-Muslims continues to this day with only a few exceptions.
Since starting fieldwork, I have been most fortunate to visit the mosque
on two separate occasions. During my second season of laying bricks and
mixing plasters alongside the masons, I was invited to join an expert team
of Dutch conservators who were taken on a full tour of the building by
the director of Djenné’s Cultural Mission.3 The team of Dutch architects,
archaeologists and engineers had ambitiously undertaken the conservation of nearly one hundred historical and architecturally significant mud
houses in the old town (see Bedaux et al. 2000), and their privileged access
to the mosque, and especially its prayer hall, was granted in recognition of
the long, dedicated work they were conducting. My second opportunity
arose while shooting a documentary film in 2005 that included scenes of
the annual re-claying of the mosque. During this event, foreign observers and dazzled tourists were welcomed into the grand courtyard and its
surrounding galleries and were allowed to climb the slippery staircases in
the north and south towers to the roof but, understandably, access to the
prayer hall remained restricted.
Following a brief history of the mosque, the chapter presents an architectural description of the building and an account of the annual re-
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claying ritual. I then describe a rather tragic and violent event in 2006
that brought the struggle over Djenné’s cultural heritage, and particularly
its mosque, into graphic relief. The chapter then concludes with a final
discussion of heritage politics and the present challenges facing the preservation of the Great Mosque.
A brief history
The Djenné Mosque is arguably the most famous architectural monument
in sub-Saharan Africa. Reputed to be the largest extant mud building on
the planet, the complex of prayer hall, courtyard and perimeter galleries
rests on a high plinth, towering over dense urban quarters and dominating
the skyline of the vast, flat expanse of scrubland and riverine floodplain
that encircles the island town. The mosque’s foreboding walls are buttressed by rhythmically spaced sarafar pilasters and pierced by hundreds
of protruding palm-wood toron spikes, all geometrically arranged like a
cubist cactus. Three sturdy towers punctuate its eastern flank, providing
a dramatic backdrop to the busy Monday market and orienting Djenné’s
prayers toward Mecca. Each of the towers terminates in a missile-like pinnacle capped gracefully by a gleaming white ostrich egg, and the terrace
rooftop of the complex is ringed by a high and curvaceously crenulated
parapet wall.4
Residents are fiercely proud and protective of their mosque, and the
building has long been pivotal to their collective identity as Djennenké,
even when it stood in ruins during much of the nineteenth century (plate
10). After its rebuilding, the French glorified it as an exemplar of the “Sudanese style”,5 and its image circulated on the photographic postcards
published by Edmond Fortier in 1906 and on colonial postage stamps of
the French Sudan (Maas, Mommersteeg & Gardi 1995)6 (plate 11). The
new mosque also served as a prototype for other mosques, including
those built in the towns of Mopti, San and Niono as well as in smaller villages throughout the Inland Niger Delta region. Curiously, the design for
a mosque built after World War One in the southern French city of Fréjus,
to serve garrisoned French West African soldiers, was also based on the
Djenné Mosque (see Mommersteeg forthcoming).7
The appropriation of Djenné’s architecture as a marker of regional culture and local tradition was perpetuated by Mali’s postcolonial governments, and most concertedly by President Alpha Konaré (1992-2002) who
made cultural heritage a fundamental part of his development strategy
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(Arnoldi 2007; De Jorio 2003). Konaré subscribed to the idea that architecture is perhaps the most ‘enduring feature of the cultural heritage and
national identity of Mali’, and that showcasing and celebrating distinctive
buildings, such as Djenné’s Mosque, is an effective means for ‘promoting
a “democratic form of citizenship”’ (Rowlands 2007: 127-128). Indeed, the
mosque has become a seminal icon of Mali’s distinct world-class heritage
on a global stage. As expressions of tangible and intangible heritage respectively, the mosque and its spectacular annual re-claying ceremony
feed social and political imaginings of pre-colonial roots, authenticity
and sustained tradition, while their integration into economies of tourism
and development allow them to be productively ‘brought into line with
national ideologies of cultural uniqueness and modernity’ (KirshenblattGimblett 2004: 61).
Legend claims that the mosque stands on the site of the ancient palace
of Koi Konboro, a local king ruling in the late twelfth and early thirteenth
centuries who, according to al-Sadi’s Tarikh al-Sudan, converted to Islam in CE 1180 (Hunwick 2003: 17-19). As his subjects followed suit and
embraced Islam, the original town at nearby Djenné-Djeno, tainted by a
long history of animist practices, was gradually abandoned and the population of traders, craftspeople, fisher folk and cultivators migrated three
kilometres to the northwest and took up residence at Djenné’s present
site.8 Today’s masons claim that Koi Konboro’s palace was built by the
legendary figure, Mallam Idriss, teacher of masons and founder of the
town’s enduring architectural style. In his detailed and fascinating observations of life in Djenné, colonial administrator Charles Monteil recorded
oral claims that Mallam Idriss was a Moroccan (1932: 195-196). Architect
Labelle Prussin’s fuller account explains that he arrived from Timbuktu
with his brother Mallam Yakouba at the time of the Moroccan invasion in
CE 1591 and built Djenné’s first mosque (1986: 47; also Domian 1989: 56).
Despite the incongruity between the alleged period of Koi Konboro’s rule
and the year of the Moroccan invasion, it is nevertheless maintained by
residents that the king’s converted palace served as the principal masjid
al-jum‘a, or Friday mosque, until the early nineteenth century.9
In 1818, Fulani Muslim Cheikou Amadou, presumably inspired by Uthman Dan Fodio’s recent success in bringing “true” Islam to the Hausa
states, instigated a momentous jihad that spread throughout the Inland
Niger Delta. He soon founded the Macina Empire with its capital at Hamdallaye. A strategic target of Cheikou Amadou’s military campaigns was
the historical market and trading centre of Djenné where, in his youth,
he had studied at one of the numerous Qur’anic schools. He admonished
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its religious scholars for their laxity and syncretism, and for conducting
trade in the mosque (Azarya 1980: 435, 443-444, 447). His Fulani troops
invaded from the northeast and occupied Djenné, expropriating land in
and around the town, dominating its political administration, and wielding a conservative brand of Islam that had a lasting impact on the urban
fabric.10 Cheikou Amadou, keenly aware of the pervasive anti-Fulani resistance and potential for uprising amongst Djenné’s citizens (Azarya 1980:
446), ordered the closure of all neighbourhood mosques to prevent their
use as rallying points (Monteil 1932: 151).11 He later shut the doors to the
Great Mosque, justifying his actions with claims that its sanctity had been
stained in the sixteenth century by the corrupted practices of the occupying Moroccans (Ba & Daget in Bourgeois 1987: 56). They allegedly shed
blood, sold fermented drink and engaged in licentious dancing therein
(Bourgeois 1987: 56).
Chiekou Amadou’s fundamentalist agenda banned ‘games, music, and
other signs of merriment’, restricted ‘consumption and any signs of luxury’ and made participation in Friday prayer a mandatory duty (Azarya
1980: 447). Quite plausibly, his accusations of syncretism were directed
at the kinds of religious, spiritual and magical customs that flourish today: local marabouts (religious scholars), for example, produce amulets
(e.g. gris-gris) and recite benedictions (gaara) for paying clients (Mommersteeg 2011); craftspeople invoke powerful trade “secrets” (sirri) that
blend so-called “white” Qur’anic knowledge (bey-koray) with “black”
African knowledge (bey-bibi), and many people don protective devices
(e.g. kamba baakawal) beneath clothing and wear blessed korbo rings on
their fingers to defend against malevolent djinn or evil aru-kuru spirits
(Marchand 2009). At the time of my fieldwork, individual citizens conceived of these activities as being entirely compatible with their identity
as devout Muslims and with Djenné’s widely acknowledged reputation as
a holy town. And it is likely that their predecessors equally believed so in
the face of their Fulani persecutors.
Cheikou Amadou’s denunciation of music and his claims that dancing took place in the mosque may have been provoked by the drumming
that today accompanies the annual re-claying of the structure. Vibrant
rhythms serve to quicken the pace of work, tighten coordination between
the hundreds of participating bodies, and transform this arduous task into
a joyous celebration of community and accomplishment. In all likelihood,
this tradition extends back well before the present era, and possibly before
the arrival of the Fulani jihad. English painter and explorer Arnold Henry
Savage Landor witnessed the building of the present mosque during his
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travels across Africa, and wrote that ‘drummers and flute-players stood
gracefully under the shade of a tree, making the greatest possible noise in
order to keep the workmen in good temper’ (1907 vol. 2: 461).12
The Fulani leader could not lawfully order the direct demolition of
Djenné’s neighbourhood mosques since they were Islamic edifices. Instead, he artfully arranged for their rainspouts to be blocked, thereby
allowing the mud structures to slowly erode and dissolve during the
successive rainy seasons and to eventually collapse under the assault of
natural forces. The same tactic was later exercised on the Great Mosque
(Bourgeois 1987: 55-56). In its place, Cheikou Amadou erected a brand
new congregational mosque on a spacious site located a short distance to
the east of the old one. The building’s plain rectilinear geometry accommodated greater numbers of worshippers, but its low ceiling and stark
expression were carefully calculated to convey the Massina Fulani’s conservative religious attitudes and to focus the believers’ full attention on
prayer.
The Fulani Empire was toppled in 1862 by another jihadist wave, this
time arriving with Tukolor horsemen riding out from the Fouta Djallon Hills far to the west.13 Three decades later, French troops, under the
competent command of Colonel Louis Archinard, made inroads into the
Western Sudan, gradually extending their grip over the Inland Niger Delta. On 12 April 1893, they took Djenné. Colonial forces established administrative control in the heart of the town where their campement buildings
stand to the present day. Under their aegis, the bulk of trade – Djenné’s
lifeblood for nearly two millennia14 – was transferred to the burgeoning
town of Mopti, advantageously sited at the confluence of the Bani and
Niger rivers. From then onwards, Djenné’s prominence slowly waned,
transforming this once-thriving centre into the remote and economically
marginal backwater it is today.
The neighbourhood mosques were never rebuilt, and some former
sites were transformed into small cemeteries. Reconstruction of the Great
Mosque, however, was initiated in 1906 on the (by then) weatherworn
ruins of Koi Konboro’s original structure. The French razed Cheikou
Amadou’s ascetic mosque that same year and in its place they erected a
medersa to school their new colonial subjects in both French and Arabic
languages. The medersa site is now occupied by the Sory Ibrahim Thiocary elementary school with its formidable Djenné-style entrance gate
elaborately clad in local clay tiles.15 Though prominent members of the
non-Fulani community colluded with the French in eliminating the Fulani mosque from the townscape, Bourgeois suggests that this conten-
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tious deed, as well as the initiative to rebuild the original mosque, were
successfully ascribed to the infidel Europeans. The satisfactory result for
all parties concerned was that ‘[t]he French appeared generous, the antiPeul16 forces blame-less, and the Peul [i.e. Fulani] the helpless victims of
an overwhelming foreign power’ (1987: 60).
But, more than simply being accredited with initiating its rebuilding,
the French also came to be popularly associated with designing, engineering and overseeing the reconstruction of the Great Mosque. According to
Bourgeois (1987: 58), this attribution was first made by Landor (1907 vol.
2: 461), and shortly after was entrenched and embellished by French journalists and scholars.17 The story of French authorship was subsequently
adopted by the local Djennenké population and by Malian historians,18
and further substantiated by Labelle Prussin who linked the design to the
aesthetic rationale of the Ecole Polytechnique and to the influence of the
great nineteenth-century French architect, theorist and restorer Eugène
Viollet-le-Duc (1974, 1977, 1986).19
Jean-Louis Bourgeois’ article on The History of the Great Mosques of
Djenné (1987) furnishes an erudite account of the mix of local politics,
social relations and cultural thinking that gave birth to a long-enduring
conviction that the Great Mosque is a French creation. Therein he cogently contends that the present structure was designed, engineered and
built not by the French but by local masons with logistical and economic support from a resident population who were animated by a jubilant
spirit of independence from their former Fulani oppressors. Bourgeois’
thorough archival research turned up no evidence to support claims that
the French were involved with the building beyond granting authorisation, assisting in the conscription of labour (which also serviced the
construction of their medersa), and making a lean but indeterminate financial contribution to the project (ibid: 58). He expands his argument
in support of African authorship with references to oral histories of the
construction process and legends of masons’ novel solutions to arising
structural challenges. Bourgeois also carefully analyses the building’s
plan, massing and architectural forms which he perceptively correlates
with Djenné’s extant pre-colonial houses. According to Bourgeois, the
shared anti-Fulani sentiment was powerfully and materially manifested in the prominent towers of the new mosque, the lofty interior of its
prayer hall and the inclusion of a women’s gallery (1987: 62), all features
that stood in contradiction to Cheikou Amadou’s austere philosophy on
mosque architecture.
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An architectural description
The Great Mosque was completed by the masons in 1907 under the direction of their chief, Ismaila Traoré, and with the manual assistance of conscripted labourers from throughout the region (Bourgeois 1987: 62). As
depicted earlier, the mosque is regally elevated on a broad plinth that rises
nearly three metres above street level, and its principal façade looks commandingly eastward over a flat, wide-open space at the town centre. The
open space was once a marshy pond until filled in by the French at an early
date during their rule. Now, the dusty expanse is transformed each Monday into a lively, colourful marketplace, and on other days it serves as a
football pitch or informal gathering place. The earlier pond suggests that
the site was formerly used as a borrow-pit from which laterite soil was
excavated for the manufacture of mud bricks and finishing plasters. This
activity is presently carried out on the floodplain immediately surrounding the town’s perimeter. Typically, brickmaking takes place during the
dry season when water levels on the floodplain subside, leaving puddles
of water where soil can be churned into mud. Straw, rice husks, animal
dung or other organic binding ingredients are added to the mixture. The
rectangular bricks are then quickly produced with a wooden mould and
laid out on the ground in neat, evenly spaced rows to bake in the hot sun.
The ground plan of the plinth is an enormous parallelogram with two
pairs of parallel sides, and it is accessed via six grand staircases that ascend to a commodious terrace surrounding all four elevations of the
mosque building. The staircases – a single one on the east side and on the
south side, and two on the west side and on the north side – are flanked
by squat, robust walls that jut perpendicularly from the plinth’s sturdy
retaining wall. On the east terrace, in front of the Mecca-facing qibla elevation, rest two saint tombs delineated by low rectilinear enclosures.
At a glance, the organisation of the east façade appears to be symmetrical – a geometric quality that is foundational to Islamic art but that also
contributed significantly to the popular belief that the French designed
the building. Closer inspection, however, reveals a balanced but irregular
arrangement of architectural elements: namely an alternating sequence
of four and five pilaster-buttresses along the length of the elevation, and
differing arrangements of small, square fenestrations and protruding toron between the left and right towers. Because the entire building was
reconstructed in a short space of time and by the coordinated efforts of
the masons’ professional association (barey ton), these variations of elements cannot be accounted for by cumulative building phases, alterations
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and additions across generations. Rather, these minor irregularities may
have been consciously calculated to produce a symmetrical effect while
responding to the given geometry of the site.
Doorways giving direct access from the exterior to the prayer hall are
located in the north and south walls of the building. North and south
doors are commonly used by residents from the quarters lying in corresponding directions. On the north elevation, a pair of double doors
is grandly framed by three substantial pilasters that support a deep and
protruding bulkhead. The face of the bulkhead is decoratively pierced
by a horizontal line of small roundish apertures with two tidy rows of
projecting toron below and a capping of sarafar idye crenulations above.
In addition to their decorative appeal, the toron that project from all the
walls and towers serve a number of vital functions: penetrating horizontally, deep into the thickness of the walls, they supply lateral support
by distributing the weight of the mud bricks above; and they serve as
a permanent exterior scaffolding for making repairs and re-claying the
surfaces year after year. A series of bold sarafar pilaster-buttresses lend
support to the wall structure on either side of the monumental north
doorway, and the north wall contains a number of clerestory and groundlevel fenestrations that allow daylight to enter the prayer hall. By comparison, the south elevation, with its two unceremonious double doorways and fewer but larger windows, is somewhat plain and sombre. Maas
and Mommersteeg suggest that the apparent contrast between the north
and the south facades reflects a general disparity in wealth between these
two halves of the town (1992: 115).
Upon entering the prayer hall, eyes and ears adjust to the hushed darkness, and bare feet sink softly into the sandy floor. The interior, measuring
approximately 50 metres long by 26 metres wide, and nearly 12 metres in
height, is insulated from the hum and the heat of the outside world by the
building’s thick mud-brick structure. The three towers along the qibla
wall each contain a deep mih.rāb niche that orients the congregation and
their prostrations toward Mecca. The central tower hosts the largest of
the mah.ārīb (pl. of mih.rāb), as well as a second smaller indentation that is
elevated a short distance above floor level. This serves as the minbar from
which the imam delivers his sermon. The arched hollow of the central
mih.rāb is decoratively echoed on the exterior face of the tower by a slender and shallow depression.
The building’s interior is essentially a hypostyle hall containing ninety
massive pillars that constitute a very considerable proportion of the total floor plan (plate 12). Like a platoon of gigantic dominoes, the pillars
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are neatly set out in ten rows of nine each that align with the qibla wall
and configure the entire space into a series of long, narrow corridors that
traverse the building north-south and east-west. The dimensions of the
rectangular pillars vary by row, and the row furthest to the north includes
an array of trapezoidal-planned pillars built to accommodate the angled
line of the adjacent exterior wall. The tops of the pillars along the northsouth axes are connected to one another by pointed mud arches – an
architectural element disputably imported from North Africa or beyond,
(Aradeon 1989: 126), introduced by the French, or perhaps locally derived
(Bourgeois 1987: 62; Brunet-Jailly 2010: 8-9). Heavy, termite-resistant
palm-wood timbers (Borassus aethiopum) span the short distances between pillars and support the weighty, flat mud roof above.
In combination, the massive pillars and the complete absence of any
central or open space within the mosque limits the size of the Friday congregation that can be accommodated inside the hall. On the other hand,
this spatial arrangement has the benefit of allowing devotees who visit
on other days of the week to find a secluded spot for focussed meditation, discreet socialising or quiet rest in the cool of the dimly lit interior.
Daylight filters into the hall and between the rows of pillars through the
fenestrations in the north and south walls; through the series of arched
doorways along the western wall that give access to the courtyard, and
through small oculi that pierce the flat terraced roof of the building. A
single oculus is centrally positioned between each quadruplet of pillars.
At roof level, the oculi are protected by round terracotta vessels with removable covers for letting daylight in and hot air out. The grid of evenly
spaced vessels creates a fantastical roofscape of gentle protrusions amidst
the fissured grey expanse of sun-baked mud (front cover). The roof terrace is accessed by two stout stair towers abutting squarely against the
northwest and southwest corners of the prayer hall. All three qibla-wall
towers along the western edge harbour small s. auma‘a chambers accessible from the roof.20 The s. auma‘a in the middle tower is connected to the
central mih.rāb in the prayer hall below by a slim vertical passage which
at one time allowed the mu’ad-d-in to simultaneously listen to the imam’s
sermon and stridently transmit it to the neighbouring quarters.
The spacious courtyard occupying the western half of the mosque
complex is bordered on three sides by narrow corridor-like galleries that
serve mainly as segregated prayer spaces for women (see Cantone 2012:
339-341). This area of the mosque is known simply as the “Western Gallery”. Windows and doorways along the length of the galleries open to the
outside, and a greater number of arched doorways lead directly into the
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courtyard. On Fridays, when all male citizens of Djenné are expected to
attend the congregational s. alāt al-jum‘a prayer, the overflow of devotees
unable to find space within the prayer hall form long lines in the courtyard
and on the raised plinth surrounding the building. In unison, they attune prayers and prostrations to the imam’s cues broadcast over crackling
loudspeakers.21
The weekly procession of men to and from the mosque is an essential
ingredient of Djenné’s social glue. As the young and old wend their way
through the maze of streets, scrubbed clean and donning their finest attire, they warmly exchange greetings, donate alms (zakat) to the poor,
sick and disabled, and pay social visits to the households of friends and
extended family. Joining together for the s. alāt al-jum‘a not only reminds
Djennenkés that they are members of the global ummah (Islamic community of believers), but more concretely that they are citizens of an urban
place populated by myriad ethnic and language groups and steeped in a
long history of multiculturalism. Sharing the mosque on a regular basis
helps to bridge the steep socioeconomic divides and cultural differences
that strain daily cohabitation, and it lubricates negotiations of shared civic identity. Equally, the mosque can become a stage for civic competition
and even violent contestation over the control and ownership of Djenné’s
cultural heritage (Joy 2012; Rowlands 2007) and, in effect, of Djennenké
identity, which I illustrate in the following sections.
Annual maintenance
Like its mud houses, Djenné’s mosque requires basic annual maintenance
and re-claying to safeguard the structure against erosion from the steady
harmattan winter winds, pounding rains during summer months, and the
intense Sahel sunshine that decomposes the organic matter that binds
the bricks and plasters. Historically, the mosque’s annual re-claying took
place late in the dry season,22 usually in March or April when the masons’
building activities were winding down23 and while stagnant ponds on the
floodplain still contained sufficient water for mixing the thick grey plaster.24 An auspicious day was negotiated between town elders and the barey
ton chief, and was publicly declared with little forewarning. Preparations
had to begin immediately – and energetically. Visiting tourists and researchers merely relied on chance to be in Djenné on the day of re-claying.
Circumstances surrounding the event that I witnessed in 2005, however,
were entirely different from the past.
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In the autumn of 2004, a group of town residents organised a committee to plan for the first-ever Festival du Djennéry in 2005. The festival was
to be scheduled for the month of February to capitalise on the country’s
brief tourist season, and the committee reckoned that the centrepiece
and major draw for foreigners would be the re-claying of the mosque.
According to anthropologist Charlotte Joy who joined the committee as
part of her study of heritage politics (2012), the motivation for the festival
was driven by the economic and cultural achievement of other commercialised festivals that had materialised throughout Mali in recent years.
The practice of displaying Mali’s rich cultural heritage extends back to the
late nineteenth and early twentieth-century colonial exhibitions in Paris
and Marseilles, and more recently to the series of national Biennales Artistique et Culturelle inaugurated by Mali’s first post-Independence president, Modibo Keita. For decades, Malians have also been loyal spectators
of television serials that display their cultural traditions, ritual dances
and music from around the country, produced with the aim of fostering national integration through the celebration of locality and diversity
(Schultz 2007). In particular, the Djennéry committee was inspired by the
international success of the Essakane music festival held each year since
2001 in a sandy location north of Timbuktu,25 and the newer Festival sur
le Niger staged annually in the historic Bamana town of Segou. Joy reports
that the 2005 Djennéry event was envisaged as a trial run for an even
bigger festival in 2006 marking the centenary of the (re-)building of the
Great Mosque (2012: 182).
The 2005 Festival du Djennéry was an eclectic and mildly chaotic affair.
The week-long agenda, from 19 to 25 February, included a daytime crafts
fair, a poster exhibition on local architectural heritage and archaeology
hosted in the town’s grain hall, and a programme of “cultural evenings” at
the Maison des Jeunes that featured ethnic music and dance performances
by troupes from Djenné and the surrounding Bozo, Fulani and Bamana
villages. The re-claying of the mosque was billed as the closing extravaganza. Disappointingly, however, only a small number of tourists showed
up for the festival, and the whole business was tarnished by accusations
of financial corruption and mismanagement (see Joy 2012: 179-197). Most
controversial, perhaps, was the fixing of the date for the re-claying ceremony to accommodate the festival calendar. This manoeuvre sparked
enduring tension between the planning committee and the circle of senior
men who formerly made their selection in secret, allegedly in consultation with almanacs and lunar calendars and in sympathetic coordination
with the region’s variable climactic conditions. Their dispute embroiled
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the Imam and his entourage, the government employees of the Cultural
Mission, Djenné’s traditional Chef de village and the elected mayor. The
elders were finally pacified and brought on side after the “prix de thé” (a
cash gift that forms and sustains bonds of patronage) was paid to them
(Joy 2012: 187).
As normal, the barey ton masons were responsible for overseeing the
planning and logistics of the 2005 re-claying event, while young male and
female representatives appointed by each town quarter were tasked with
organising the preparation and delivery of materials, food and entertainment on the day, and with supplying willing labour. In previous years, reclaying occurred in two separate stages spaced a week or so apart, and the
populations of the northern and southern quarters of the town were responsible for plastering the surfaces on their respective halves of the building. I continue my description of the 2005 event with passages borrowed
from the final chapter of my book, The Masons of Djenné. These convey
the level of community coordination and festive spirit invested in this extraordinary annual undertaking, and ultimately the social antagonism that
arose due to the committee’s interference with the fi xing of the date:
Massive, coordinated preparations began Wednesday afternoon. On
the outskirts of town, armies of little boys frolicked in shallow ponds
of soupy brown water, trampling, scooping, and gathering piles of dark
oozing mud. In a cacophony of shouts, chants, and banging metal pots,
squadrons of older boys and young men arrived with horse carts and
woven baskets to collect the mud, and then rampaged back to town
behind fluttering flags and banners (plate 13). Groups of adolescent
girls and unmarried women sang praises and made music with cowryladen calabashes along the sides of the road, tossing and spinning the
instruments and cheering the mud-spattered hordes of men as they
sprinted to the Mosque and up the wide stairs onto the raised platform
that envelops the enormous building. Idle onlookers were aggressively
pelted with fistfuls of pasty mud, and globs of the stinking stuff clung
tenaciously, like tar, to hair and clothing. Cartloads and baskets were
dumped in ever-growing piles at the base of the Mosque walls and in
the market square. This activity continued through the afternoon with
raw energy and mounting intensity. The rambunctious squadrons became fully engrossed in their task; as they charged through the streets,
some of the individuals gazed unwaveringly ahead with feverish, wild
stares. People said these boys drank infusions of almukaykay26 to boost
vigour and sharpen their focus. [...]
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That evening, pre-plastering revelries were organised throughout
Djenné. In a neighbourhood of Yobukayna, a blue plastic tarpaulin
was stretched between rooftops to shade the open space below, and
stereo speakers were mounted in windows and doorways. Metalframed lawn chairs with corded rubber seats and backs were lined
up in neat rows facing one another, and a colourful display of plastic
flowers was arranged on a low wooden table positioned at the centre
of the public square. Music soon crackled over the speakers, luring
a slow but steady trickle of residents to the street party. As the day’s
heat subsided, the blare of music grew louder. The mix of popular Malian hits and heavy-metal rock drowned out all possibility for conversation, and guests sat sedately in the long rows of chairs sipping
bottles of sugary soda water. The gathering lasted until half-past-two
in the morning, the stragglers strolling home under the bright light
of a full moon.
A shrieking whistle pierced the dawn at 6:20 am, signalling the start of
the event. Drums beat madly to a chorus of cries, and what seemed like
a thousand bodies rushed forward carrying baskets and pots of every
description. Legions of sinewy, muscular arms hoisted colossal wooden
ladders against the walls, creating the scene of a fortress under siege.
Scores of men scrambled up the front face of the building, climbing
the ladders and acrobatically scaling the armature of projecting toron
(plate 14). A continual relay was set in motion, delivering basket after
basket of mud from the ground to the highest pinnacles that adorned
the towers and parapet wall. [...] Companies of women hastily transported colourful plastic pails brimming with water from the marshes,
pouring them from the top of their heads in steady streams upon the
gigantic piles of mud. Masses of young boys trampled the mucky mess,
churning it into plaster and playfully painting each other from toe to
head. Other young ones colonised their own small patches of the building, spreading plaster over the podium walls and nearby saints’ tombs
with tiny sweeps of their palms. Even foreign tourists who dared venture from the relative safety of the sidelines lent a hand in the plastering
work. Musicians ferociously pounded drums, and young women spun
their calabash instruments, heightening the frenetic tempo of the festivities.
The masons and apprentices were centrally involved, shouting instructions to the squadrons of young men and commandeering the plaster
work from the highest rungs of the ladders, straddling toron in midair and organising the waves of deliveries that wound their way up the
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mosque staircases to the roof. [...] All clothing was muted in shades of
browns and greys, perfectly harmonised with the tones of the newly
dressed mosque. (Marchand 2009: 290-293)
Television crews were on site to witness and broadcast the event to the
nation. Representatives from the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry
of Arts and Tourism were on hand, symbolically endorsing the Malian
government’s vested interests in Djenné’s cultural property and its World
Heritage status. The Minister of Culture and the Prefect of Djenné briefly
lent a hand in the muddy business to the applause of onlookers and for the
keen attention of rolling television cameras. Attracting media coverage to
transmit Djenné’s greatest cultural event to the nation, and hopefully to
the world beyond, was a core aim of the festival organisers. In effect, the
tv-screen image would validate their local tradition as worthy and relevant to modern nation-building in the eyes of a Malian viewing audience,
and it would attract more tourism and possibly much-needed development assistance for the town.27
Every able-bodied man and boy, and hundreds of women, participated
in this extraordinary feat of coordination, energy and speed. By 7:30
am, the eastern façade and towers of the Mosque were complete, and
the remainder of exterior surfaces, including the courtyard walls and
the roof, were finished a few hours later. By late morning the task was
over. Unlike in the past – when half the building was plastered and the
other half tackled a week or so later – the entire building was covered
at once. Because of the enormity of [the 2005] mission, accurately estimating the total quantities of mud required was difficult. As a result,
supplies ran dry before all the surfaces could be adequately covered.
It was rumoured that a second coating would be needed once the first
layer dried. This miscalculation ignited [further] debates about the
procedures and preparation, and many elders and marabouts alleged
that the plaster shortage occurred because the tradition of selecting an
auspicious date for the ritual had been discarded in favour of the new
festival calendar. The Mosque’s centenary would be celebrated in a year,
and popular sentiment was that Djenné must revert to hosting this important event on a specially chosen day.
By noon weary crowds trailed off home, and hundreds journeyed by
foot, bicycle, and in the back of trucks to bathe along the banks of the
Bani River at Sanuna. Children jumped from the docked ferryboat and
splashed about in the gently flowing waters, while mothers laundered
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soiled clothing. Back in Djenné individual neighbourhoods hosted celebrations, and handfuls of candies were distributed among the throngs
of anxious children. A group of women cooked a special meal of rice
and lamb that later would be shared by the barey ton in the courtyard of
the mosque. Seventy-odd members of the masons’ association gathered
on the west side of the mosque to hear the closing words from their
chief, Sekou Traoré. They sat closely together on the ground, shaded by
the high walls, and, as they listened, casually peeled dried splotches of
mud from their clothing, limbs, and faces. Before rising to their feet, the
masons graciously raised upturned palms toward the sky and made a
communal benediction for the safety of the town and prosperity in the
year ahead. (Marchand 2009: 294)
A gathering storm
The 2006 Festival du Djennéry was ‘a scaled-down’ and ‘insignificant
event’, largely soured by the corruption scandals that had surfaced the
previous year (Joy 2012: 197). 2006 also marked the start of declining tourism, not just in Djenné but throughout the country, as international news
reported the emergence of a group calling itself “Al-Qaeda in the Islamic
Maghreb” (aqim) and its suspected infiltration into West Africa, including Mali. The tourist trade, a significant sector of the national economy,
was dealt further blows by the renewal of Tuareg rebellions in the North
(in 2007-09 and again in 2011-12), while a general situation of impoverishment throughout the Sahel region was exacerbated by persistent threats
of catastrophic drought (recurring in 2005, 2010 and again in 2012). One
cannot but ponder, even fleetingly and fancifully, whether a conceivable
connection could be made between the extreme difficulties experienced
by Djenné since 2005 and the admonitions issued by its elders about reclaying the Great Mosque on an inauspicious day.
One particular, calamitous event in 2006 will long be remembered by
Djennenkés, and equally by foreign researchers and conservationists who
have worked in the town and especially on its mosque. The account I
offer is based on extensive coverage of the incident published by the local historical conservation group, Djenné Patrimoine, in their electronic
bulletin (2006 no. 26); the official response by the Cultural Mission to
allegations of elitism and lack of communication with the general public
(ibid), and the ethnographic description and fine analysis furnished by Joy
(2012: 120-124).
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On 16 September 2006, a team of technical experts from the Aga Khan
Trust for Culture (aktc) arrived in Djenné. Three years previously, the
Aga Khan had signed an agreement of cooperation for development
with Mali’s President Amadou Toumani Touré which included plans for
the architectural restoration of the historical Sudanese-style mud-brick
mosques in Mopti, Timbuktu and Djenné. Restoration of the Komoguel
Mosque in Mopti was successfully completed in 2006, and preparations
were underway to commence work on Djenné’s Great Mosque. On earlier
visits to the town in 2005, the aktc team made initial inspections of the
building, noting especially the problems posed by a colony of bats resident in the prayer hall. Together with representatives from the Cultural
Mission, they also paid courtesy visits to the Imam, the hereditary Chef
de village and other elite office holders. The five short days they would
spend on their return to Djenné in September 2006 would prove surprisingly eventful.
During the first four days, the aktc team conducted further elementary surveys of the mosque structure, its electrical wiring and its sound
system, initially proposing that necessary works would take eight months.
The state of the roof was investigated, and it was decided that a small excavation should be made to accurately measure the depth of mud plaster
accumulated over the last century and to assess the state of the wooden
supporting beams below. Following further courtesy calls to the Prefect,
the Mayor and the Chef de village, and a meeting with the Chief and Secretary of the masons’ barey ton association, the team of aktc specialists
assembled on the mosque roof in the early hours of 20 September and
began digging a hole.
According to some sources, the excavation was made at a “sensitive”
location close to the mih.rāb tower (Joy 2012: 121). Rumours about illicit
foreigners spoiling the mosque, digging for sacred treasures, or secretly
planting a computer device in the building spread through Djenné like a
brush fire. A group of youth vocally confronted the aktc workers on the
roof, drowning out the experts’ explanations with cries condemning the
Imam and the Chef de village, who authorised the restoration work, as
“corrupt!” A riot quickly erupted on a scale and with a level of intensity
unprecedented in the recent history of the town. Though the aktc team
escaped unharmed, their tools were vandalised and the angry crowd descended into the prayer hall, ripping down the electrical cabling and ventilation fans donated in 2002 by the American Embassy.28 They marched
onward, protesting angrily at the town hall, the home of the Chef de village and the Office of the Prefect in turn. The crowd next vented its unre-
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lenting rage at the Cultural Mission, where they sacked the premises and
destroyed displays of archaeological objects in the courtyard. Returning
to town, they damaged the Imam’s three cars and denounced him for such
material extravagance. Reinforcements of police and soldiers from Mopti
finally arrived to quell the violence. Sadly, one young man drowned in the
marshes while trying to escape. Many were arrested that afternoon, and,
in the days and months following, their faces were systematically identified on a video shot by a local photographer as the chaos unfolded.
The majority of those arrested were residents of Djenné’s southern
quarters, reputed to be the poorest neighbourhoods. As Joy notes, these
young people are members of the most marginalised communities, reaping little or no economic benefit from tourism, development or the few
employment opportunities that the politics of cultural heritage bring to
the town. The heritage projects are popularly perceived as ‘cash cows’,
exclusively benefiting a select, privileged and “corrupt” circle of civil and
religious office holders (2012: 120). The top-down promotion and management of cultural heritage, according to Joy, further entrenches ‘divisions between those people in society who can legitimately mobilise money for its promotion and those for whom the money is intended (directly
or indirectly) and who remain disenfranchised from the whole process’
(2012: 197). I share Joy’s conclusion that the 2006 riot was not merely the
delinquent activity of a few unruly youth, as portrayed by the authorities.
Rather, it was the manifestation of a widespread sense of impotence and
exclusion from the centres of power and decision-making that directly
affects the homes people live in and the buildings where they pray and
socialise and which they maintain as a community.
Indeed, protesters and members of Djenné Patrimoine placed blame
for the riots on the Cultural Mission and on elite civil and religious authorities, accusing them of making critical decisions regarding the town’s
mosque in a thoroughly undemocratic fashion and without public consultation. In their bulletin published after the incident, Djenné Patrimoine
also speculated that the roots of the unrest were deeply embedded in a
power struggle between conflicting philosophies for preserving Djenné’s
earthen architectural heritage. They noted that many of those charged
with inciting the riots were close allies of town resident Jean Louis Bourgeois, an author of scholarly works on “vernacular” architecture and, notably, on Djenné’s Mosque (cited above).29 Allegedly, Bourgeois believes that
no outsider should be permitted to tamper with the town’s mosque (2006
no. 21: 3), a view that straightforwardly challenged the aktc’s proposed
intervention. In concert with Bourgeois, Djenné Patrimoine stated that,
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as a local heritage association, they have ‘repeatedly asserted that protection of Djenné’s heritage must be put in the hands of the town’s population
or else such protection will never be assured... And naturally this applies
even more strongly for the Mosque – Djenné’s only place of prayer for all
believers – than for its civilian buildings’ (2006 no. 21: 4, my translation).
In the same bulletin issue, following Djenné Patrimoine’s reportage
and socio-political analysis of the incident, the association justly published the response of the Cultural Mission (2006 no. 21: 4-6). Mission
representatives responded in detail, vociferously defending their position
and insisting that plans for the aktc works had been communicated to
the population well in advance via a newspaper article, radio broadcasts
on the local “Jamana” station and face-to-face meetings with a variety of
town authorities and representatives. Amongst town residents, however,
the Cultural Mission has popularly been cast as the “outsider”; in combination, the government-level appointment of a civil servant from another
region to oversee the Mission’s operations and the physical location of
its office and museum a kilometre outside the old town have reified this
status in the minds of many Djennenkés.
But plainly, the power struggle over control of Djenné’s cultural heritage, and namely its mosque, entangles a far more complex mix of interest groups than just the hard-core adherents of Bourgeois’ philosophy, a
party of foreign aktc “experts” and a handful of self-interested civil and
religious elites. The bulletin containing Djenné Patrimoine’s stinging report and the Cultural Mission’s response illuminates a web of tension that
incorporates local, national and international strands. While fostering its
own international network of scholars, experts and benefactors, Djenné
Patrimoine proclaims to represent the true concerns of local town folk
about their historical urban environment. But reaching agreement among
an ethnically and linguistically diverse citizenry about how architectural
heritage can add tangible value to their lives, or how their homes and
their mosque might be preserved while simultaneously taking advantage
of present-day amenities and new technologies on offer, is an arduous
process with no guarantee of clear outcomes. The Cultural Mission, too,
represents the cultural and social aspirations of some town residents but,
as a government office, its more overt agenda is to safeguard heritage for
the nation and to keep Djenné on unesco’s World Heritage list. It also
acts as official mediator for, and collaborator with, the teams of foreign
experts who propose and finance conservation initiatives in the old town
and the surrounding region. To state the obvious, bringing all of these
various scales of concern and interests into dialogue with one another
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and establishing a workable consensus is a formidable task but a necessary
one to keep the peace and give the Djennenké population a clear stake in
shaping their futures.
Deflated centenary celebrations
The 2007 re-claying of the Great Mosque was carried out in a single day.
Authorities and elders worried that the traditional competition between
northern and southern quarters in renewing their respective halves of the
building might rekindle smouldering hostilities from the 2006 riot. The
event went off without the pomp and pageantry that many had envisaged
to mark the centenary of the building’s completion. One hundred years
before, on 13 April 1907, the Imam Et-Taouati made a short speech to
mark the opening of the mosque (Djenné Patrimoine 2007 no. 23: 1). The
2007 re-claying was therefore scheduled on 12 April, followed the next
day by a maouloud celebrating the birth of the Prophet Muhammad. The
aim of combining the events was to heal social ruptures and foster peace
and unity in the still-shaken community. The centenary festivities that
had been planned for the month of December were cancelled altogether. Papa Moussa Cissé, the President of Djenné Patrimoine at the time,
emailed association members and benefactors to explain that the community of resortissants in Bamako were unable to raise sufficient funds
for the event. Djenné Patrimoine nevertheless hosted an exhibition titled
“Djenné depuis cent ans” that was displayed from late December until early January 2008. This consisted mainly of photographs taken from the late
nineteenth century onward, and included images of the Great Mosque,
the town’s administrative buildings, streetscapes, grand houses and residents. A text accompanying a sample of the photos published in the association’s bulletin read:
The images before your eyes made a tour of the globe a century ago,
making Djenné world-renowned: the photographs are testimony to the
heritage passed on to us by our forefathers. They display the grandeur
that we have to transmit to our children. (Djenné Patrimoine 2007 no.
23: 1, my translation)
Meanwhile, the aktc redirected its energies to restoring the ancient and
glorious Djingueré Ber Mosque in Timbuktu, also a unesco World Heritage monument.30
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The Mosque re-made
The Aga Khan Trust for Culture did finally return to Djenné and began
restoration work on the Great Mosque in January 2009 under the stewardship of an international team of architects and in close collaboration
with the town’s barey ton masons and local labourers. The work site was
positively promoted as a forum for ‘fruitful exchange’ between the foreign
experts and the masons, and as a place for training and for improving
earthen technologies that would be transferrable to other historic buildings (aktc 2010:4).
The team’s first task was to remove the nearly 60 centimetre-deep accumulation of heavy mud on the roof terrace and assess the condition of
the wooden supports below. Two layers of wood were discovered, one laid
perpendicularly to the other. The lower level was constructed of termiteresistant palm timbers spaced tightly together, and most were judged to
be structurally sound; by contrast, the upper layer was made of ordinary
timbers, many of which had rotted. All of the latter were replaced with
lengths of quartered palm wood imported from the western region of
Kayes. The masons re-clayed the parapet walls and pinnacles surrounding the roof terrace with a smooth rendering made from a light-coloured
earth (quarried from a spot near the archaeological site of Djenné-Djeno)
carefully mixed and fermented with rice husks (plate 15). It was agreed
that the annual re-claying ceremony would proceed in order to coat the
remaining wall surfaces, but an exceptionally late date of June 4th was set
for the event (Djenné Patrimoine, 2009 no. 26: 13). This would be the last
re-claying ceremony for three years.
On Thursday, 5 November 2009, after a spate of heavy rainfall that
damaged numerous houses, the upper half of the mosque’s southern
mih.rāb tower suddenly collapsed, releasing several tons of mud bricks,
plaster and wooden toron that came crashing down onto the terrace below. Four masons working on the scaffolding at the time were thrown to
the ground but, miraculously, they suffered only minor injuries (Bouleau,
email text sent to the Djenné Patrimoine mailing list, 8.11.2009). According to masons, no person has ever been seriously injured while working
on the mosque, not even during the frenzied re-claying ceremony, owing
to the prayers and the secret benedictions that they recite beforehand
(Marchand 2009: 26). Masons also claim that they share with their totem, the yellow-headed m’baaka lizard, the ‘agility, balance and capacity
to cling to, and scale, vertical wall surfaces’ (Marchand 2009: 67-68). If a
mason falls, then ‘quick as a wink he will change into a lizard and scamper
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down the wall’ (Bourgeois 1987: 62). The collapse of the tower prompted
Djenné Patrimoine to acknowledge ‘the extent to which Djenné’s architectural heritage is in danger, and the extent to which its protection demands urgent action of a well-defined and large-scale nature’ (email announcement to the association’s mailing list, 08.11.2009). This is precisely
what ensued with the mosque.
A subsequent series of borings made through the thick layers of plaster
and into the underlying structure led the conservation team to conclude
that the mosque was showing signs of weakness and that a more thorough
intervention was justified. In a report published by the aktc in late January 2010, it was noted that the annual re-claying ceremony was failing to
supply the technical maintenance necessary for the building’s long-term
preservation. Analysis of the plaster layers also revealed that the general
quality and water-repellent properties of the mud had declined in recent
years. According to the report, this was due to poor preparation that allowed insufficient time for fermentation of the added organic materials,
and to the feverish competition staged between the town quarters which
motivated hasty and incompetent applications of the rendering. The
aktc’s recommendation for future practice was that ‘the masons should
play a central role in preparing the materials and overseeing the annual
re-claying; and, on the days following the festivity, the masons should
conduct technical surveys and carry out the more delicate repairs and
maintenance’ (2010). The aktc offered to furnish an illustrated technical manual to guide future maintenance, and this, they suggested, would
complement the embodied know-how of Djenné’s local masons.
It was agreed by the various parties involved that a century’s worth
of accumulated plaster be removed from the building envelope in order
to execute the necessary structural repairs. As a supposedly beneficial
consequence, this exercise would also restore the mosque to its “original”
1907 form.31 Over the next two years, all interior and exterior surfaces
were peeled back and renewed; the electrical wiring for interior lighting, ventilation and the sound system was replaced and encased within
the mud walls; wooden doors, windows and grills were restored or remade, and structurally unsound sections of the building, such as the two
towers flanking the central mih.rāb tower and the north stair tower, were
demolished and reconstructed (Cultural Mission 2010). Reconstruction
was executed with djenné-ferey, a compact cylindrical brick pre-stressed
by hand and used almost exclusively in Djenné until the introduction in
the 1930s of the rectangular wooden mould for rapidly manufacturing socalled tubaabu-ferey (‘white-man’s brick’) (Marchand 2009: 41). Reviving
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the method for producing and building with djenné-ferey (a skill apparently lost to all but one surviving elder mason) has long been a priority for
the Djenné Patrimoine Association (2008 no. 24: 3-4), and thus the aktc
programme of works won trust and support. Permanently evicting the
resident colony of bats from the prayer hall, however, proved to be a more
challenging campaign.
The cancellation of the annual re-claying ceremony in 2010 and again
in 2011 while restoration works continued, combined with the prescriptive recommendations for future maintenance, resuscitated suspicions
that care and ownership of the mosque had been wrested from the hands
of Djenné’s ordinary citizens. Worries were dispelled when, finally, a date
for re-claying was announced in 2012. On 11 March, the task was carried
out in a single morning, seemingly with the same energy and zeal as in
the past. Mali’s Minister of Culture attended the early-morning prayers
and benedictions, and he stayed to witness the electrifying start of the
event.32 Mounting troubles in the country, however, including the kidnapping of foreigners, an armed Tuareg insurrection and a growing Islamist
insurgency in the north, and violent demonstrations in the capital, kept
most tourists away from the 2012 re-claying spectacle. Just a few weeks
later (and one month before scheduled national elections), a military coup
d’etat ousted President Amadou Toumani Touré from power, with the effect of further reducing and practically eliminating any remaining tourism
in the country and deterring visiting researchers. At the time of writing,
troubles persist throughout much of the country without any foreseeable
resolution in the short to medium term.
It therefore seems reasonable to predict that Djenné will be putting
on its re-claying spectacle for itself in coming years. The political and
security crises, and the resultant desertion of tourists and disappearance
of foreign aid, will surely have devastating effects on an economy already
crippled by corruption, drought and regional instability.33 Conservation
and research projects in Gao, Timbuktu, the Dogon region and Djenné
have been suspended for an indeterminate period or terminated. If there
is anything positive to emerge from all this chaos, it may be that Djennenkés will, by necessity, re-appropriate ownership and responsibility for
sustaining their cultural and architectural heritage. This is not to suggest
that Djennenkés harmoniously share a common ideal about what to preserve and how to preserve it, as studies by Joy (2007, 2012) and Rowlands
(2007) illustrate so well.34 Rather, struggles and competitions over meaning, value, building materials and methods will be anchored once again in
the local. In my opinion, this is where they belong (Marchand 2003).
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Conclusion
This chapter has attempted to convey that the Djenné Mosque is not just
a place of prayer or an aesthetic object for historical preservation. Perhaps
more importantly, it is a building constructed, maintained and, one might
add, perpetually transformed by its community. Whether as physical site
of ritual performances or as photographic representation, postage stamp
graphic or scale model,35 the mosque instils a deep sense of both religious
and civic belonging and a fierce pride of place, origins and historical continuity. Weekly prayers and the annual re-claying ceremony are practices
that create and renew social cohesion, but equally they are sites for contestation and negotiation. Personal and group displays at Friday prayers
and divisions of labour during the re-claying impute and reinforce hierarchies of wealth, rank, piety, gender and access to knowledge. But when the
disparity between those at opposite ends of the spectrum grows too wide
(e.g. in the 2006 riot), or when there is failure to reconcile ideological
gaps through peaceful means (e.g. during the Fulani jihads), the mosque
becomes a prime site of resistance for contesting, and sometimes reconfiguring, the social order.
As attested in this chapter, the mosque has also long been a battlefield
between opposing aesthetic views and between competing conservation
philosophies and strategies. For the Aga Khan Trust for Culture, and presumably for those Djennenkés and Malians working in close collaboration with them, stripping away the layers of plaster revealed the “original”
edifice as it stood newly built in 1907. This restored and frozen version of
crisp straight lines and sharply defined geometries – rendered in a brighter, silky smooth plaster – was celebrated by some as “authentic”. But as
Barbara Bender astutely notes, ‘the very act of freezing is itself a way of
re-appropriating’ (1998: 26). Furthermore, it needs to be recognised that
‘heritage interventions – like the globalising pressures they are trying to
counteract – change the relationship of people to what they do’ (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2004: 58).
Outside interventions that aim to control the materials and methods
employed in the annual re-claying ceremony impose a detrimental kind of
change upon people’s relationship to what they do. As master mason Konbaba Tennepo declares at the end of a documentary film on Djenné and its
masons, the re-claying event is ‘our greatest celebration’ (Vogel, Marchand & Sidibe 2007). In a later interview, the elderly mason lamented the
results of the aktc restoration: ‘There is a big difference now between the
mosque today and what it was. In the past, when you looked at it, you had
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the impression that it was a very big mosque. But now it looks thin and
narrow. It doesn’t look good. What I want is that we now add banco (mud
plaster) so that the mosque regains its form.’36 The palimpsest of plaster
layers, now removed, represented a century of finely calibrated work coordinated between the hundreds of men and women who participated
each year (plate 16). It is the physical and social “processes” – processes of
building, renewing and transforming the mosque with accretions of mud
and, of course, praying, socialising and finding tranquillity within it – that
undeniably constitute the core of its “heritage value” (Marchand 2003). In
spite of foreign concerns for the long-term preservation of the physical
building as a unique cultural artefact, it needs to be respectfully acknowledged that as long as there is a resident community with the skilled knowhow to (re-)make, modify and maintain, and the available materials and
conditions to do so, Djenné’s Great Mosque will surely endure as a living
place with meaning and purpose for resident Djennenké, and hopefully,
too, for the wider world.
Acknowledgements
I give my thanks to the British Academy and the School of Oriental and
African Studies for funding my first two periods of field research in Djenné, and to my mason colleagues who made my stay and work there both
enjoyable and enlightening. Thanks to Charlotte Joy and John Heywood
for providing valuable feedback on an earlier version, and to the supportive suggestions offered by Oskar Verkaaik and an anonymous reviewer.
Finally, many thanks to the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Pierre Maas,
Geert Mommersteeg, Joseph Brunet-Jailly and Boubacar Kouroumanse
for their generous provision of illustrations to accompany my text.
Notes


Interview with Konbaba Tennepo in Leiden,  September .
My anthropological fieldwork, supported by the British Academy and the
School of Oriental & African Studies, resulted in a number of publications
including The Masons of Djenné (), the documentary film The Future of
Mud: Tales of houses and lives in Djenné (, co-produced with Director
Susan Vogel and Samuel Sidibé), and an exhibition at London’s Royal Institute of British Architects (). A further exhibition featuring new short
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documentary films is planned for the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History (, in collaboration with Mary Jo Arnoldi).
 A Cultural Mission was set up at each of Mali’s unesco World Heritage Sites,
including Djenné and the archaeological site of Djenné Djeno, the town of
Timbuktu, the tomb of Askia Muhammad in Gao and the Dogon region.
Their remit is to sensitise local populations to the value of cultural heritage
and educate them about conservation management, and to enforce the rules
and regulations that accompany unesco World Heritage status.
 See Marchand (:  n) for a discussion of the debated significance of
the mitre-like sarafar projections.
 Sometimes referred to as Sahelian or Sudanic style, the Sudanese style is a
French creation that combines the “minaret of the Djingueré Ber mosque
at Tombouctou with the traditional Muslim façade of a house at Djenné”
(Prussin : ). These elements appeared in the model reconstruction of
a colonial citadel of French West Africa at the  Marseille Colonial Exposition and, more ambitiously, they were employed to establish “an architectural prototype for France’s entire West African empire” (ibid). Attempts
to define the core features of the style and its geographical spread have been
taken up by numerous Western scholars including Engeström (: ),
Denyer (: -), Prussin (: , ), Domian (: ), Maas
and Mommersteeg (: ), LaViolette (: ) and Trimingham (:
).
 The French made similar use of the Teleuk traditionally built by the Mousgoum people of Northern Cameroon. An example of this elegant, beehivelike mud structure served as the French Equatorial Africa pavilion at the
 International Colonial Exposition in Paris, and was featured on postage
stamps, currency and posters. Steven Nelson argues that, over the course of
the twentieth century, the Teleuk has been transformed into an architectural
repository of both Mousgoum and European cultural history, memory and
experience ().
 Mommersteeg (forthcoming) notes that this building, which belongs to the
French Ministry of Defence, was classified as a historical monument in .
 Archaeological evidence demonstrates that Djenné-Djeno was settled by the
third century bce, became a thriving urban settlement by the eighth century ce and was populated until the fourteenth century (see R.J. McIntosh &
S.K. McIntosh ). Both the archaeological site and the contemporary mud
town of Djenné were declared unesco World Heritage Sites in .
 See Bourgeois for a detailed account of the siting of the first mosque (:
-).
 See Azarya () for a detailed account of the Fulani Massina Empire.

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 The total number of neighbourhood mosques that existed in Djenné at that
time remains uncertain. See Bourgeois (: , footnote ) for a brief discussion of the conflicting figures in the published sources.
 See also the photographic plate in Landor  (): .
 The Tukolor jihad was led by Chiekh Umar Tall and his Tijaniyyah followers
against the Massina Fulani, who were members of the Qadirriyyah brotherhood. The jihad reached Djenné in , and the short-lived Tukolor Empire
was effectively ended in  with the arrival of French forces in the region.
 See R.J. McIntosh and S.K. McIntosh () and R.J. McIntosh () for an
archaeological and historical account of the ancient city of Djenné.
 Djenné’s classification as a unesco World Heritage Site demands that all
buildings in the town be constructed from mud brick. However, the school,
like Djenné’s hospital, the Jamana radio station and several government administrative buildings, were built in concrete. According to Joy (:),
parents and teachers distrusted the authorities to carry out the necessary annual maintenance required for mud structures, and successfully campaigned
to have the school built in concrete.
 Bourgeois uses the term Peul for the Fulani. Peul is a term used by other
ethnic groups in the region to describe the Fulani. In the town’s dominant
Djenné-Chiini language, the word filan means Fulani.
 Bourgeois (: ) cites the works of journalist Felix Dubois, French scholars Paul Marty and Alphonse Gouilly, and the Surrealist writer Michel Leiris.
 See, for instance, Ba & Daget (: ), cited in Bourgeois (: ).
 Viollet-le-Duc, a contemporary of John Ruskin, is perhaps best known for the
restoration works he carried out on France’s medieval national monuments
such as the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, the Benedictine monastery of
Mont St. Michel and the fortified town of Carcassonne.
 A s.auma‘a translates from Arabic as a ‘monk’s cell’ and refers to the small
chamber on a mosque’s roof that shelters the mu’ad-d-in (prayer caller).
s.auma‘a is also one of three Arabic terms used for ‘minaret’, the other two
being manārah (lighthouse) and mi‘d-d-ana (place of the calling).
 Note that congregational prayers during ‘I d al-Ad.h.a (known in French West
Africa and the Maghreb as Tabaski, and popularly referred to as ‘I d al-Kabir)
take place not in the mosque but in a dedicated large open space in the western quarter of Kanafa. This is an exclusively male event, and thus women pray
at home.
 Anthropologist Geert Mommersteeg reports that, during the drought years
of the s, the event was sometimes scheduled as early as February depending on the availability of water for making the plaster (personal communication). This was also the case in .
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 The building season typically lasts from December to March, after which
masons engage in other forms of work and employment including fishing and
agriculture, and some become migrant labourers working on building sites,
using concrete and steel, in Bamako or West African cities further afield. See
Marchand () for a more detailed discussion about work and life strategies among the community of masons.
 Interview with chief mason Sekou Traoré, February .
 Despite serious security concerns throughout northern Mali sparked by the
latest Tuareg insurrection, the Essakane Festival au Désert was held successfully in January  but was “exiled” to a site in Burkina Faso for . Islamic rebel groups announced a ban on any music across the northern half of
Mali which, at the time of writing, is under their control.
 This is a species of the Datura plant belonging to the family Solanaceae.
Most parts contain toxic hallucinogens.
 Mommersteeg (forthcoming) notes that, as of , tourism had become
Djenné’s main industry.
 During a visit by the American Ambassador to the Imam of Djenné in 
(apparently to explain that the War against Saddam Hussein was not a war on
Islam), the Imam seized the opportunity to ask for “a small gift”. The electrical fans were later donated by the American Embassy for the Mosque. (Djenné Patrimoine bulletin Autumn , nr. : )
 Bourgeois was also a leading voice of the Cultural Survival campaign against
the damming of the Bani River whose flood waters surround Djenné and
replenish the land with rich silts for making mud bricks and plasters (see
Marchand : n, nn,, nn,).
 The alliance between Tuareg and Islamists was short-lived, and the al-Qaedalinked Ansar Dine group seized Timbuktu in April  and imposed a strict
interpretation of sharia law. The Islamist insurgents proceeded to destroy
saints’ tombs and attack Sufi mosques throughout the city, as well as the ancient Djingueré Ber Mosque. unesco expressed fears that valuable artefacts
and manuscripts were looted and trafficked to international markets (bbc 
July ).
 During restoration works, a number of tombs were discovered at the base of
the south wall of the prayer hall, confirming that the mosque had been used
as a cemetery following its destruction by Cheikou Amadou in the nineteenth
century (Cultural Mission : ).
 See http://www.djennedjenno.blogspot.co.nz/___archive.html
 At the time of editing the final draft of this chapter on  January, the Ansar
Dine Islamist insurgents, who control the north of Mali, took Konna (bbc 
January ), an important central town less than one hundred kilometres

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north of Mopti and about two hundred kilometres from Djenné. If Djenné is
taken and a strict interpretation of sharia is imposed, the shrines and saint
tombs around the Mosque may be attacked, marabout practices could be
threatened, and the re-claying ceremony would likely become a sadly different and more sombre event.
 See also Fontein, who notes that despite the fact that historical and archaeological sites and museums were used for purposes of ‘anti-colonial and postindependence nation-building in Africa, this does not eliminate potential for
conflict and tension around the use of the past – especially its use as heritage’
().
 Miniature models of the Mosque are on display in the National Museum in
Bamako and in the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde in Leiden; a scale replica
of the building was constructed by Djenné masons for a temporary exhibition
under the high-tech steel-and-glass dome of the Clayarch Gimhae Museum
in South Korea (see Djenné Patrimoine bulletin nr. : ), and a group of masons have been contracted to build a replica in downtown Brussels for a 
exhibition curated by the bozar.
 Interview with Konbaba Tennepo in Leiden,  September .
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The New Morabitun Mosque of Granada and the
Sensational Practices of Al Andaluz
Oskar Verkaaik
The conundrum of beauty and religion is a particularly salient one for
the community of Western Islamic converts who have settled in Granada,
Spain.1 Known as the Morabitun – the Arab word for the Almoravids who
ruled most of Spain in the eleventh and twelfth centuries – this group of
converts came to Granada in the 1980s where most of them have lived
in the neighbourhood of Albaicin, located opposite the Alhambra with
a view of the Sierra Nevada. Aiming to revive the Islamic culture of AlAndaluz, they chose as their home a place of objective beauty, even despite the fact that Albaicin was a run-down, neglected and romantically
dangerous part of the city in the 1980s that has been gentrified, tamed
and renovated since the influx of the converts from all over Spain, from
other European countries, the us and Latin America. Many of these new
Granadinos mention the architectural splendour of the Alhambra and the
natural beauty of the Sierra Nevada as an essential part of their lives as
Muslims in Andalusia. Living in the shadow of the Alhambra, the former
centre of what they perceive as European Islam, is part of their religious
identity as converts. Yet, they are also concerned with the notion of Islam
as primarily an ethical tradition and an inward form of spirituality that is
cultivated by the believer’s personal worship of God and his or her submission to the religious tradition. From this perspective, one is apprehensive
of too much emphasis on aesthetic delight. If piety needs to be evoked by
the outward beauty of architectural ornamentation, well-designed gardens
or even snow-capped mountains, there is apparently something lacking
inside. As the founder of the Morabitun community Sheikh Abdalqadir
as-Sufi – born Ian Dallas – writes in one of his books, the doctrine of the
oneness of God leads to a radical transcendence in which God cannot even
be compared to all the beauty in the world (As-Sufi 2009: 33-47). How,
then, should one reconcile this interpretation of Islamic doctrine with the
aesthetic pleasure of living in the heart of Andalusian heritage?
This is not the only enigma Granada Muslim converts have to deal
with. They are not the only ones who are attracted to the Islamic cul-

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ture of Spain. They share the Albaicin neighbourhood with hippies and
backpackers who gather around the Mirador de San Nicolas to listen to
flamenco music, drink cheap beer and play with their dogs, while taking
pictures of the famous hilltop on the other side of the Darro river. Classy
tourists in search of the authentic Andalusian experience, which the large
hotels downtown cannot offer, come to stay here in expensive, exclusive
guesthouses while yuppies and artists renovate old houses and gardens,
decorating them with Moorish tiles (azulejos) and woodwork. For Muslim
converts, their own fascination for Al-Andalus comes dangerously close
to that of others from whom they nonetheless need to distance themselves. They share with the hippies a dislike of capitalist consumer society,
and both groups have in common a preference for a simpler lifestyle, but
the Muslims reject the hippies’ antisocial behaviour, their dogs and their
drinking habits. Like the tourists and the artists, they are aesthetically
attracted to the Alhambra, but at the same time Al-Andaluz is more to
them than cultural heritage alone – it is a cultural tradition they seek to
revive and live. But how this desire differs from the tourist search for authenticity is not altogether clear, especially because a significant number
of Muslim converts make a living in the tourist industry, selling self-made
or imported pottery, woodwork, leatherwork or recorded Sufi music.
Muslim converts in Granada, then, cannot simply admire the aesthetic
quality of Andalusian heritage and landscapes. Religious dogma and mass
tourism force them into a level of reflectivity that stands in the way of
unpretentious delight. And yet, they deliberately seek to live close to the
Islamic heritage of Al Andaluz in order to recreate a new Muslim lifestyle
that they feel is intrinsically connected to Spain’s Islamic past. Al Andaluz
heritage is central to what I will call ‘sensational practices’, that is, an aesthetically informed lifestyle through which the convert community creates
a complex of bodily habits or ‘habitus’. It is through these sensational practices that Muslim converts develop their Islam into an entire way of life,
beyond mere religious doctrine, connected to former aesthetic traditions.
In this article I will look at the centre of the Morabitun community – a
new mosque opened in 2003 – by asking how Granadino Muslim converts
deal with these dilemmas. The new Mezquita Mayor de Granada is built
on a prominent spot, just next to the Mirador de San Nicolas with its
splendid views of the Alhambra and its around-the-clock tourist industry
(plate 17). The gardens of the mosque offer equally panoramic views of the
Alhambra set against the Sierra Nevada, and those tourists who want to
get away from the hustle and bustle of San Nicolas come to take their pictures here and enjoy the tranquillity of the gardens. Built in the Mudéjar

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style of the surrounding churches and convents, the Mezquita is hardly
recognisable as a mosque from the outside (which is, of course, ironic,
given that the Mudéjar style was a continuation of Islamic architecture
under Christian rule), but the sight of clean-shaven men dressed in suits
and ties who come to say their daily prayers here and stop to have a chat
with fellow Muslims amidst the flowers and the fountains while checking
their iPhones for their next business appointment gives the place a sense
of everyday routine that is quite distinct from the heritage/holiday atmosphere to be found outside its walls. The mosque apparently creates a
space in which the converts’ dilemmas are at least partially and temporarily solved. Below I will analyse the new mosque as a creative and to some
extent successful response to these dilemmas.
The mosque as a sensational form
Approaching the question of architecture from a perspective of problemsolving implies a departure from a representational approach that focuses
on the meaning of architectural forms in terms of power and identity.
From a representational perspective, a religious building is an ‘argument
cast in stone’ (Mekking 2009: 12), a political statement by means of architectural form. It expresses power or represents a certain identity. Most
studies on contemporary mosque design in the West adopt such an approach, either implicitly when they speak of spatial politics (e.g. Metcalf
1996; Sunier 2005) or explicitly as an alternative to approaches that portray architectural history in terms of temporal and regional styles (Roose
2009). What I would like to call a local concern approach does not at all
deny the relevance of power and identity, but it does not assume these
questions to be most crucial to all cases either. It rather starts by empirically exploring the nature of the local context in which a religious structure is built, what issues it raises and what concerns it seeks to remedy.
The term ‘local’ here is meant in a relative and situational sense: the locality of a representative religious building that attracts a lot of national or
even international media coverage will be much wider in scope than the
locality of a village church or mosque. Power and identity are likely to
play a role in all cases of religious architecture, but other concerns such
as a consideration of religious doctrine or habitus may be just as relevant
(Verkaaik 2012).
A purely representational analysis of the new Granada mosque would
be rather straightforward. By choosing the Mudéjar style, the community
THE NEW MORABITUN MOSQUE OF GRANADA
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not only adapts to the local environment (as was in fact the city government’s demand), it also places itself firmly within the Islamic tradition in
Spain, presenting itself as a continuation to some extent of Al-Andaluz,
as indeed its name – the Morabitun – also suggests. Besides, it is an affirmation of the essentially European identity of the Morabitun community as well as a statement that Islam is historically part of the European
religious landscape. On one of my first visits to the mosque, the caretaker,
clearly used to showing visitors around, pointed out to me the horseshoe
ornamentation of the entrance to the praying room, narrating that this
element, although now widely taken to be an essentially Islamic architectural feature, is in fact Visigoth and therefore pre-Islamic in origin. I later
discovered this to be a statement about the quintessentially native nature
of Muslim Andalusia. According to the caretaker, the Islamic culture of
Al-Andaluz had developed out of an indigenous pre-Islamic past and had
not imported its art and architecture from the Middle East. Although the
Muslim kings originated from Damascus, he said, they had adapted to the
local culture and developed it. At the same time, however, the interior
of the mosque also makes pan-Islamic references, such as the qibla wall
(that points towards Mecca) that is modelled upon the Dome of the Rock
Mosque in Al-Quds (Jerusalem), calligraphy that is based upon the Topkapi palace in Istanbul, or wooden decoration derived from the Madrasa
Ibn Yusuf in Marrakech (Robinson 2007: 268-9), all of which suggests the
Morabitun’s ambition to be part of mainstream Islamic tradition. In short,
this somewhat eclectic mix of architectural references can rather straightforwardly be taken to identify the Morabitun as traditionalist Muslims
with a strong sense of Spanish and therefore European identity.
All of this may be true and important, but it overlooks the enigma of
aesthetic pleasure and religious doctrine that forced the converts into a
deeper engagement with the mosque project than would have been the
case if mosque design were a matter of representing a religious identity
alone. This is an issue that some of the more perceptive studies of contemporary mosque design in Europe and the us are attentive to. As Jerrilynn
Dodds has shown in a study on mosques in New York, American Muslims
tend to reject the question of architectural design as religiously irrelevant.
Time and again they told Dodds that Muslims can pray anywhere as long
as the chosen spot is clean. As the mosque is essentially about spirituality and community life, its architecture is obsolete. Prayer, they argue, is
‘an act out of time’, ‘in prayer all external concerns must vanish’ (Dodds
2002: 65); hence, it is irrelevant to place, too. Especially the notion of
the mosque as a sacred place is sometimes condemned as transplanting
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Christian ideas about religious architecture into Islam (Eade 1996: 226).
And yet, despite this contemporary Islamic iconoclasm, we find a strong
preference for conventional architectural forms and decorative elements
like domes, minarets, arches, calligraphic bands, mosaics and the like in
the vast majority of new Western mosques. Some criticise this trend as a
form of migrant nostalgia (e.g. Avcioglu 2007; Welzbacher 2008), whereas
others see it as a religiously obsolete but socially relevant symbol of Islam
in a predominantly non-Muslim society (Dodds 2002: 81-89). It seems to
me, however, that such explanations simply accept contemporary interpretations of religious doctrine as reality, assuming that Muslims literally
practise what they preach, thereby circumventing the real issue that modern Muslims in the West need to deal with the discrepancy they might experience between contemporary religious doctrine and certain aesthetic
traditions. The only study that I know of that seriously engages with this
dilemma is Akel Ismail Kahera’s book on American mosque design, in
which the author tries to develop a theory of mosque aesthetics from the
theology of Ibn Arabi. For the latter, beauty is both one of the attributes of
the divine (Al-Jamal) and the result of human creativity (al-jamal), both
dimensions forming a continuum. From this it follows that subjective human creativity is not an absolute innovation, which, if translated as bida,
does not have a positive connotation in Islamic theology but ‘a synthesis
of preexisting visual expressions’ and therefore allowed or even desirable
(Kahera 2002: 13). As I read it, this is an attempt to ground architectural
practice and spatial experience in Islamic theology, creating a space for
aesthetic practice within religious doctrine, but it is not an ethnographic
exploration of how contemporary Muslims do or do not solve the problem
of aesthetic pleasure and religious doctrine.
Put in terms recently developed in material religion studies, the question is to what extent it is justified to consider the contemporary Western
mosque as a ‘sensational form’. Birgit Meyer has recently defined religion
as a ‘practice of mediation’ between ‘human beings and a transcendental
or spiritual force that cannot be known as such’ (Meyer 2009: 11). Religion
offers certain forms and techniques that make it possible to contemplate
the divine that is not of this world, and it is only through these forms and
techniques that we are able to get near the divine. In fact, Meyer seeks to
dissolve the whole distinction between form and substance, as it is only
in religious form that religious beliefs can be manifested. She coins these
forms and techniques ‘sensational forms’ that constitute a ‘religious aesthetics’, because of their affective impact on the practitioners (ibid: 13).
Like an older anthropology of religion that emphasised the centrality of
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ritual practice, Meyer shifts the attention from the cerebral to the sensory
aspects of religious experience, asking how religious mediations invoke
an ongoing engagement with the divine and the religious community. In
the case of contemporary Islam, one can think of praying, dietary practices or dressing styles as sensational forms that create a sensory experience of piety (Mahmood 2005). From a perspective of reformist theology,
it is a lot more controversial to consider the mosque as a sensational form.
But if we consider prayer not merely as an act of the mind that places itself
out of time and out of place but as a contemplative technique of the body
in its entirety that allows for this transcendental experience, it becomes
imperative to think about the sensory, and hence spatial, dimension of the
ritual.
It is important to note that Meyer defines ‘aesthetics’ in Aristotelian
terms as the sensory experience of the world rather than simply beauty.
Much of the religious aesthetics that the authors in Meyer’s edited volume
talk about invokes sensations of the sublime or the habitual rather than
the beautiful. When in this article I use the term ‘beauty’, I do not mean
to refute Meyer’s definition of the aesthetic. I rather do so for empirical
reasons. For the Morabitun, as probably for a lot of tourists, the Islamic
heritage in Spain is primarily described in terms of beauty, pleasure, harmony, order, geometry, peacefulness, etc. But in contrast to most tourists,
Al-Andaluz for the Morabitun also stands for a past and a way of life that
one seeks to revive by physical proximity and imitation. Al-Andaluz is
therefore more than mere beauty or heritage. It is, as we shall see, an Islamic ethics concealed in beauty and sensory pleasure. At the same time,
the public use of cultural heritage is diverse and contested, as Granada
attracts many visitors who come to see the Alhambra. It is by taking AlAndaluz as a tradition that is as ethical as it is aesthetic that the Morabitun distinguish themselves from the tourist search for Islamic heritage.
Muslim converts in Spain
The new mosque of Granada is the most prominent physical proof of
the presence of contemporary Islam in Andalusia. It is also one of the
first representative mosques in Europe established by Western converts.
Spokespersons of the Morabitun, however, do not pride themselves for
this fact. They rather insist that they are part of a much wider trend of
conversion to Islam among native Europeans. The reason why this trend
of conversion is given so little attention, they say, is because dominant
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voices in the public debate always depict Islam as foreign to Europe. They
see themselves as living proof that this commonsensical notion is false.
Al-Andaluz, with its tradition of convivencia (coexistence, tolerance), is
evidence that historically, Europe has been multi-religious. They see the
expulsion of the Muslims and Jews from Spain after 1492 as a form of
genocide or ethnic cleansing and the beginning of a long Christian effort to drive Islam beyond Europe’s borders. They resist this attempt to
obscure the past. For them, the new mosque is therefore not the result of
recent globalising trends that bring Muslims to Europe but rather a milestone in the ongoing restoration of an original pre-1492 Europe.
The Morabitun of Granada number around a thousand families – a
flexible figure because new converts constantly join in whereas others
move out. They are but one among various groups of Spanish converts,
but many of these groups originate from them. The Morabitun are an
initially British Sufi group led by Ian Dallas, a Scottish writer and actor,
who had been initiated into the Darqawiyyah brotherhood in Morocco
in the late 1960s and who later called himself Sheikh Abdalqadir as-Sufi
(Geaves 2000: 142-145). Spanish travellers to the uk brought the Morabitun to Spain, where they founded a first community in Cordoba in 1976,
moving to Granada in the early 1980s. Around the same time, in 1981, the
movement initiated the mosque project when the city government offered
them a plot in Albaicin opposite the Alhambra. At a time when popular
resistance against Islam was still negligible due to the fact that there were
hardly any Muslims in Granada, the municipality anticipated that a new
mosque built in the traditional Mudéjar style would help promote the city’s
reputation as an exotic tourist destination. But the project was delayed
by financial problems and growing resistance from local anti-mosque activists, among them several Catholic organisations (Roson Lorente 2001).
Meanwhile, the Morabitun moved from being initially a movement engaged in Sufi mystical practices, such as the reciting ritual of dhikr, to a
more sharia-based interpretation of Islam and a rejection of Western capitalist society. Many converts travelled to Syria and Saudi Arabia to study
Arabic and theology at Islamic universities (madrasah). The Morabitun
became more and more a closed, endogamous group which resulted in
the emergence of a strict social hierarchy with a number of major schisms.
Run-away groups settled in places like Orgiva (in nearby Alpujarras), Murcia, Sevilla and Almodovar del Rio (near Cordoba), whereas new convert
groups sprang up in Barcelona and Valencia. At the same time, Muslim
labour migrants from Morocco, Mauritania, Senegal, Pakistan and other
Muslim countries came to Spain, whereas the beach resorts at the Costa
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del Sol attracted wealthy Muslim families from the Gulf region. There
is, however, relatively little interaction between converts and migrants
(Rogozen-Soltar 2012). Whereas migrants form their own local communities, converts are well-integrated into transnational networks of fellow
converts, such as the global Nasqhbandi brotherhood, travelling and visiting each others’ centres in the uk, Germany, the us, Morocco and the
Middle East (Dietz 2004: 1093). This also explains why the Morabitun
include many natives from European and American countries.
There are several factors that help explain the revival of Islam in Spain.
At the beginning, there was the fascination for ‘Oriental’ mysticism in
the counterculture trend of the 1960s and 1970s, which included Sufism.
One American convert who has lived in Spain since 1979 recalled that he
got in touch with Sufism in California through a Palestinian sheikh, not
yet realising that Sufism was Islam. He travelled to Morocco and after his
initiation settled in Spain. Like him, the majority of the first Spanish converts were young left-wing students, critical of consumerism and interested in spirituality.2 The transition from counterculture Sufism to a more
scriptural or Sunna-based form of Islam was accelerated by interactions
with Syrian students and refugees who had come to Spain in the 1960s as
a result of Spain’s cultural policy toward the Arab world which offered
students from the Middle East the opportunity to study at Spanish universities. These students founded the first Islamic centre in Granada in 1966.
Syrian students belonging to the Muslim Brotherhood stayed in Spain as
refugees, as Syria had outlawed the Brotherhood. These well-organised
groups maintaining transnational links across the Muslim world successfully mediated for the Morabitun to get funds and arrange scholarships
in the Middle East. They also criticised the Sufi-minded converts for being ‘out of Sunna’, warning them against heterodox communities like the
Ahmediyyas (who built a mosque in Pedro Abad near Cordoba in 1982),
inviting them to accept Islam as a discursive moral tradition (Arigita &
Ortega 2012).
After the death of Franco in 1975, Islam began to play a role in the
construction of a separate regional identity of Andalusia in the context
of federalisation and secularisation. Under Franco, Spain had been a
mono-confessional Catholic state, actively trying to ‘castilianise’ the various regions. Democratisation put an end to this by granting equal rights
to religious minorities, a long process finalised in 1992 (Arigita 2006: 565),
and allowing greater regional autonomy. However, the new constitution
distinguished between two kinds of regions: those based on ‘historical
nationalisms’ with distinctive cultural and linguistic features, and those
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without such cultural idiosyncracies. Catalonia, Galicia and the Basque
Country belonged to the former category, but Andalusia initially did not,
partly as a result of the fact that as of the 1960s the Spanish tourist industry had promoted Andalusian popular culture (Semana Santa, bullfighting, flamenco and gypsies) as Spanish culture. In its search for greater
regional autonomy, the provincial government did not only try to reclaim
this heritage as essentially Andalusian, but also stressed the Moro legacy
as a distinctive feature of Andalusia. Although Muslim converts reject
this instrumental use of Al-Andaluz by non-Muslim politicians, their
very presence in Andalusia has in fact endorsed these claims (Dietz 2004:
1094-5).
On a national level, too, Islam and the Al-Andaluz legacy have played
a significant role in recent national identity debates. Since the 1970s, the
left-of-centre PSOE has consistently stressed Spain’s mediating role between Europe and the Islamic world. This also included a policy of dialogue with domestic Islamic communities and the affirmation in 1992
that Islam was historically ‘well established’ (notorio arraigo) in Spain. In
this symbolically loaded year, half a millennium after the fall of the last
Muslim kingdom of Andalusia, the government stated that the ‘Islamic
religion is one of the spiritual beliefs that has configured the historical
personality of Spain. Our culture and tradition cannot be separated from
the religious foundations that have forged the most profound essences of
the Spanish people and character’ (quoted in Arigita 2009: 225-6). As part
of the same ceremonies commemorating the events of 1492, the Saudisponsored King Abdel Aziz al Saud mosque in Madrid – better known
as the M30 mosque for its proximity to highway M30 – was inaugurated
in the presence of the royal families of Spain and Saudi Arabia. We find
the same sympathetic attitude towards Islam after the terrorist attacks in
Madrid (2004) when Prime Minister Zapatero called for an ‘allegiance of
civilizations’, a clear response to Huntington’s infamous ‘clash of civilizations’.
Such statements, however, are deliberately meant to counter a widespread notion of the Spaniards as an essentially Catholic nation rooted
in a centuries-long war with Islam. Hence, at the same time as Zapatero
was proposing an allegiance of civilisations, his political rival José Maria
Aznar placed the terrorist attacks of 2004 in the context of the reconquista, suggesting that ‘many radical Muslims’ strive to invade Spain again
(ibid: 232). Given its symbolic history, it is not surprising that Granada
is not just a meeting place for Muslim converts but also the site where
this anti-Moro sentiment finds a ritual expression in the annual Dia de
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la Toma, or Day of the Fall, the city’s main festival when the conquest of
Al-Andaluz by the Kings of Castile and Aragon is celebrated. It is an increasingly controversial festival, contested by Muslims and non-Muslims
alike who seek to replace it for a Fiesta de la Tolerancia. These conflicts
symbolise Spain’s and Andalusia’s ambiguous identity as a place where
Europe and Islam come together and at the same time a frontier state
against invading Moors.
Living like an urban bedou
Unlike the hippies of Albaicin, most Muslim converts are now economically well-integrated and self-sufficient, holding jobs in civil services or
running private businesses. A significant number of them are active in
the creative industry and the tourist sector as designers and constructors,
musicians, ceramists, tilers or woodworkers. This is more than just a way
of making a living. Consider Ahmad3, a carpenter who received a formal
education in modern woodworking, but then began to study and practice the Mudéjar techniques that he found in and around Albaicin. Not
knowing much about these traditional techniques at first, he gradually
discovered their logic by imitation. Next he moved on to study the subtle woodworks of the Nasrid monuments that he had always admired for
their dazzling ingenuity and their effect of making you feel lost in endless
repetitions of criss-crossing patterns. To his surprise, he discovered that
all these wonderfully decorated ceilings and doors were based on a simple
logic. ‘Pure mathematics,’ he says: ‘Once you are on to it, it is as rational
as modern carpentry, only much more beautiful and inventive.’ Now he
makes a living decorating new private houses, or renovating old ones, in
Nasrid or Mudéjar style. In times when business is slow, he makes small
wooden boxes with inlaid patterns of various kinds of wood that he sells
to tourist shops. Although he realises that his products are remakes, he
does not feel that he is cheating on tourists looking for authentic souvenirs. Nor does he think that his work as a carpenter and designing woodworker creates mere illusions of a long-gone Islamic past. His aim and
pleasure, he says, do not lie in the recreation of old forms as such but
in learning to use the traditional craft. Employing and developing these
old techniques as a carpenter has become a form of self-transformation.
‘When I am at work, I feel close to that wonderful Muslim culture.’ Besides, he considers his work to be of higher quality than the cheap, massproduced, quasi-Nasrid columns with readymade arabesques, mozarabs
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and Koranic texts that are used to decorate the often Moroccan-owned
teashops in and around Albaicin.
What struck me in my conversations with Muslim converts in Andalusia was the centrality of the notion of ‘Muslim culture’ in the way they
talked about their lives. For Abdul, a musician born in the uk, Sufi music
has been the gate that led to his conversion. In the early 1990s he met a
group of Spanish Muslims on his first hajj. Although he lived in Syria for
ten years to study Arabic and the Sunna, he spent almost every summer
in Granada before finally settling here five years ago. With his Granadabased music group, he travels a lot to Europe, the us, Morocco, Turkey
and the Middle East to give concerts, but he now considers Granada his
home. Playing Sufi music in Britain, he always felt out of place. In Syria
he was so absorbed in learning that he hardly touched his violin. Syria
deepened his religious knowledge, which he considers immensely valuable, but Granada and his return to music have reminded him of his first
love for Islam. ‘The first cut is the deepest,’ he says, and what he calls ‘the
spirit of Granada’ comes very close to that primary experience. ‘Granada
is Europe and not Europe. It has got this wonderful Islamic architecture
that was built to last a thousand years. My hope is to have an international
Sufi music festival here. Granada is the perfect place for it.’
What Ahmad and Abdul convey to me is that ‘Muslim culture’ means
more to them than just Sufi music or Nasrid woodwork. Music and woodwork are rather suggestive of a whole way of life that they associate with
Islam. This lifestyle includes a certain rhythm of the day structured by
the times of prayer, drinking tea in a coffee-minded and alcohol-addicted
environment, eating dates, nuts and halal meat, sharing the Friday afternoon lunch in the mosque, or wearing clean and modest clothes. But given their personal interests and talents, composing Sufi music or designing Nasrid-styled ceilings happens to be their preferred way of engaging
with this ‘Muslim culture’. The aspiration is twofold. On the one hand,
making music or woodwork is a pedagogical or disciplining practice – an
Anthropotechnik in Peter Sloterdijk’s terms (2012) – through which Muslim converts seek to create a religious habitus that has not been part of
their upbringing. On the other hand, they also seek to revive this ‘Muslim
culture’. Perhaps Miguel Ruiz Jimenez expresses this ambition most accurately. A sculptor and a potter who has built his workshop in a village
just north of Granada, he makes replicas of the huge Alhambra jugs that
he sells to the Gulf region. He has spent years trying to reconstruct the
traditional pottery skills in order to make the 1.5-metre-high jugs. He has
rebuilt Arab-type kilns big enough for the jugs. He has experimented with
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various kinds of wood to reach the right temperature inside the kilns. But
the point of all these efforts, he writes, is not to bring to life an art that
was destroyed 500 years ago. Apart from the obvious commercial purposes, his aim is rather to continue, rather than duplicate, a tradition that
was interrupted by war and expulsion. It is his objective to treat Nasrid
art as a living culture rather than mere heritage. And although he himself
is not a Muslim, his ambition is illustrative of the ways many converts in
Andalusia engage with what they call ‘Muslim culture’. It also shows that
in Spain one need not be a Muslim to seek the revival of ‘Muslim culture’.
A publication of the Morabitun entitled ‘Welcome to the Islamic Capital of Europe’ puts it this way: ‘We, the Muslims of Al-Andaluz today,
are not seeking the revival of a bygone culture and historical splendour,
but rather the re-encounter with the essence of what it is to be human,
the natural form of man: nobility of character and a society where justice
prevails.’ Still, despite the fact that the convert experience is inextricably
linked to Al-Andaluz, there are various shades of meaning to the notion of
‘Muslim culture’, leading to debates and arguments that sometimes escalate into a schism. In Orgiva, a mountain town south of Granada, I talk to
two converts, an American from Ohio and a Catalonian from Barcelona,
for whom Al-Andaluz has strong ideological and political implications.
We meet in a teashop (teteria) called Baraka, which serves Middle Eastern
food and advertises courses in yoga, chakra healing and astrology for children. Despite this New Age feel, which is quite different from the Morabitun centre in Granada, Umar McBrien and Sheikh Nazim have more than
just their personal spiritual wellbeing on their minds (even though they
see the weekly trance-evoking chanting ritual of dhikr as their main religious practice, next to prayer). Their turn to Islam – both converted in
the 1970s – is also an act of social criticism. Both bearded men, wearing
robes, baggy trousers and a fez, describe modern society as a world of
disorder, leading to social injustice and strife, ultimately heading for the
apocalypse. They blame both the capitalist economy and the democratic
political system for modern social anarchy. As Sheikh Nazim states, ‘Our
world is one of sexual freedom in return for financial slavery.’ For them,
Al-Andaluz stands for a just economic system without usury, based on
the real material value of gold and silver rather than the virtual nature of
modern money flows.4 It is also a sultanate that links sovereign power to
social responsibility and honour, which they much prefer to a democratic system that puts power into the hands of the people without holding
them responsible for their democratic acts. They interpret the apocalypse
as the moment when modern society will be destroyed, after which the
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sultanate will be restored. ‘But we have no idea what that means,’ says
Umar McBrien: ‘We have never lived in a system like that. We can only
have trust.’ The combination of their mystical practices and rejection of
modern society has pushed them to the margins of society, as symbolised
by their retreat into the Alpujarras mountain region, where they feel as
though they are living as ‘Moriscos’, Muslim communities that continued
to live in Al-Andaluz after 1492, taking refuge in the mountains, until
they, too, were finally expulsed in 1609.
Although the Muslims in Orgiva have left the Morabitun some twenty years ago after major disagreements with its leadership, what Umar
McBrien and Sheikh Nazim tell me is remarkable similar to the ideology
put forward by Ian Dallas alias Sheikh Abdalqadir as-Sufi, the Scottish
founder of the Morabitun, who himself now lives in South Africa. In several books alternately published under both his names, he has circulated
his sermons and lectures on Islam, which for him is as much a political
and economic system as it is a set of pious practices. For him, this system that he calls Sufism is ultimately rooted in a certain way of life and
mentality which he terms Bedouin or Bedou. A Bedou is not a slave of
the modern economy, the international banking system or consumerism.
Drawing on a mixture of German Romanticism, Sufi traditions and the
sociology of Ibn Khaldun, as-Sufi defines the Bedou as someone who accepts the authority of the king as long as he is a just ruler, who is a responsible member of a spiritual community that transcends the tribal and
familial, but ultimately listens only to his natural and eternal self that is
part of divine creation rather than society. ‘The Bedou,’ he writes, ‘is outside the urban system. The Bedou is cut off from the urban entity even if
he is in it’ (Dallas 2006: 275). He is ‘an in-time creature somehow with a
beyond-time contract’ (ibid: 292). Like the Sufi, he will not submit to the
kind of conformism that modern society demands from him but lives a life
of permanent pious resistance.
Although his books are for sale in the Mezquita Mayor de Granada,
they are hardly read as messages from a charismatic leader. His rejection
of the modern financial system and his call to use only silver and gold for
money, for instance, is completely ignored. Avoiding any association with
the hippies on neighbouring Mirador de San Nicolas, most Morabitun
members live middle-class lives, maintaining friendly relations with their
neighbours. Some Muslim converts who do not consider themselves part
of the Morabitun anymore but do go to their mosque to pray even dismiss
the sheikh’s admiration for Ernst Jünger, Carl Schmitt and Richard Wagner as ‘fascist’. But his notion that being a Muslim entails more than the
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performance of religious rituals and also assumes the self-cultivation of
a certain mentality and lifestyle rings true to most of the people I talked
with. In a community of converts, this is a highly reflexive search for an
Islamic way of life. For most people it includes a sense of moral independence from non-Muslim society, a distrust of consumerism, certain moral
obligations like hospitality and honourable behaviour, certain aesthetics,
habits and everyday practices, as well as certain religious obligations like
praying, attending the juma prayer on Fridays or partaking in Thursday
night dhikr sessions. There are profound differences of opinion as to what
extent being a Muslim is an implicit form of social critique or a political
project, just as there is considerable disagreement as to how eclectic one
can be in the formation of a religious habitus. Some, for instance, will condemn doing dhikr without accepting the Sunna as a mere New Age practice that makes you a part-time Muslim at best. What is clear, however,
is that being a Muslim in Granada is in a way a total phenomenon and a
mixture of moral concerns, aesthetic desires, everyday economic activities and social critique that some summarise as ‘Muslim culture’ whereas
others, following the founder, call it a search for the urban bedou.
Designing the infinite
How, then, does the Mezquita Mayor de Granada feature in this quest
for a Muslim way of life in Spain? To arrive at an answer to this question, let’s first have a brief look at its more than twenty-year long process
of completion. As indicated above, the municipality of Granada was initially more than willing to accommodate the Morabitun’s wish for a new
mosque and offered them a prominent spot in what was then a neglected
and uninviting part of the city for sale. The Sociedad Para el Retorno al
Islam en España was formed to buy the plot in 1981. But when local protest rose, arguing that there were already too many ‘religious buildings’
in Albaicin (Robinson 2007: 264), the demands of the city government
increased. The building was to be built in a local Mudéjar style so that it
would not stand out amidst the churches and convents of Albaicin. There
were also limitations to the size of the building and its minaret, with the
result that the mosque is considerably smaller than the neighbouring San
Nicolas church. When the plot was prepared for construction, pre-Roman
remains were discovered and construction work had to be postponed for
excavations to take place. But more than official restrictions, local protest and archaeological surveys, it was financial problems that delayed
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the building process. For a long time the plot laid empty. Rather than the
location of a new mosque, it became a dumping place for garbage, and the
Granadino Muslims continued to pray in private houses and, on Fridays,
on public squares. Meanwhile, a prominent member of the community
left the Morabitun and, after spending years in the Middle East, returned
to his ancestral lands in the Sierra de Segura – a desolate, inland region
east of Granada – where he built his own mosque and madrasah with
the financial help of the Shah of Sharjah. Set against the dry mountains
covered by pine forests and olive groves, the white-washed complex with
its low square minaret, marble mihrab, colourful tile work and horseshoe
arches makes a clear reference to Moorish architecture, even though it
is not an exact replica. Invited to inaugurate the complex, the Shah of
Sharjah learned about the financial problems of the Granada community
and offered to donate the necessary sum. This allowed the Morabitun to
finally complete the mosque, which was opened in July 2003.
Designed by the Granadino architect Renato Ramirez Sanchez, the
complex looks like a smaller version of the neighbouring San Nicolas
church, painted white, with a square minaret adorned with a band of Koranic texts in Kufic calligraphy. The praying room is on the upper level,
accessible by way of the gardens adjacent to the Mirador de San Nicolas.
On the ground floor, which has its entrance on a narrow passage, the
Carril de las Tomases, there is a cultural centre with a library, an exhibition room, classrooms and offices. Simple from the outside, the interior
is more eclectically decorated. Apart from marble work resembling the
Dome of the Rock and calligraphy inspired by the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, the most remarkable element is the mihrab that is a replica of the
mihrab of the Mezquita of Cordoba (plate 18), only smaller and – according to the interior designer Sidi Karim – more mathematically perfect,
since it was designed with the help of a computer. The marble patio with
its washing place features wooden mozarabs, lattice work and mosaic tile
work, some of which were made in Morocco, that are clearly reminiscent
of the Alhambra, visible through the windows of the praying room.
I meet Sidi Karim, the interior designer who is now in his eighties, in
the cultural centre of the complex. He tells me that he was born in Murcia
– his family name is Viudes – and has lived in Granada for 30 years. He
describes himself as a Muslim who has studied Islam in the Maliki tradition, one of the four law schools (madhahib) within Sunni Islam. This
introduction surprises me, since no Granadino Muslim I have met before
has mentioned his madhhab, but Sidi Karim explains that he deems the
study of the tradition essential at a time when Muslims in Europe are
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struggling with modernity. He mentions the Salafists as an example of
modernised Muslims who have lost touch with what he calls ‘classical’
Islam. Asked what he means by classical Islam, he says: ‘Sufism. In other
words: praying five times a day.’ He laughs. ‘It is as simple as that. Praying
is the essence of Sufism. It modulates time. It anchors time.’ He explains
that the Muslim converts in Granada try to bring some order into chaotic
modern society by anchoring themselves in prayer.
Inviting me to the praying room upstairs, he says that the real mosque
is not the physical place but the people and their pious and charitable
deeds. I take that as an apology for his work as an interior designer. The
moment we enter his masterpiece, he downgrades its relevance. This may
be a response to the disapproval of some purist converts who think that
too much money has been spent on design and decoration. He must be
aware of their criticism that a mosque is, or should be, nothing more than
a clean place for prostration. For a while they stayed away from the new
mosque, preferring to pray in the small mosque located in an old house
downtown in the area where the Moroccans and Senegalese run their
tourist shops and tea stalls. But over time, such disagreements have gradually diminished. Although Granadino Muslims still form various communities, they do tend to come together in the new mosque for Friday
prayer now.
Sidi Karim shows me around, pointing out the similarities with the
Mezquita of Cordoba, making me feel the softness of the marble, indicating the craftsmanship of various decorative elements. Sheer beauty, he
says, had been his only criterion. He did not try to copy anything or make
a statement. ‘We are not looking back nostalgically,’ he says. ‘I have built
a 2003 mosque.’ When I comment that many of the elements look traditional to me, he corrects me: ‘They are classical. That means timeless.’ He
explains that Andalusian art is traditional in the sense that it was invented
and developed in a certain era, but it is also timeless in the sense that it
speaks of the eternal. He compares it to studying Islam in the tradition of
one of the law schools. These traditions are man-made and the product of
a certain time, but they lead you to what is infinite and timeless in Islam.
The explanation makes me see the difference between my own secular perspective on Andalusian art and architecture and Sidi Karim’s religious perception of it. In a secular worldview, nothing can be out of
time, everything is historical, man-made and political, including – and
perhaps especially – claims to infiniteness and timelessness. From such
a viewpoint, Andalusian art is heritage and its contemporary revival can
be interpreted as a range of comments on the present. As I have argued
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above, for many Muslim converts in Granada, however, Andalusian art is
more than heritage; it is a way of life that was interrupted 500 years ago
but is now being revived. Sidi Karim adds another dimension to this. For
him, there are moments and glimpses of the eternal in the course of time.
The whole point of praying, Sidi Karim argues, is to create such moments.
Andalusian art has developed out of a similar attempt to evoke a sense of
infiniteness through visual means. Although the result of human creativity, it also speaks of a dimension that is out of time and therefore, perhaps,
of all times. Hence, there is no discrepancy in calling a praying room that
clearly and deliberately bears the traces of various historical Islamic monuments ‘a 2003 mosque’. Imitation serves to create an atmosphere that is
supportive of the timeless act of praying. The result is a 2003 interpretation of the infinite – a prayer cast in stone.
It now also becomes possible to see how Muslim converts distance
themselves from the tourists in their admiration of Andalusian architecture. For although it is quite conceivable that tourists also sense a universal and timeless beauty in the Islamic heritage of Granada, there is a
distinction between tourists and converts that becomes clear when we
consider the possibility that most tourists may describe the Alhambra in
terms of authentic beauty, whereas they will most likely use more ordinary terms like ‘nice’ or ‘agreeable’ for the new Granada mosque, provided
they indeed like the place. This indicates that their aesthetic experience
of Andalusian architecture is related to the auratic affect of heritage that
loses much of its impact after imitation (Benjamin 1969). For Sidi Karim,
however, the infinite dimension of Andalusian art is not in its aura of authenticity but in its capacity to recall and revive ‘classical Islam’, which for
him does not belong to a bygone era but is of all times.
Sensational practices
Of course, some designers and architects may tend to rationalise their
work in order to make the designing process – most often a contingent
practice of improvisation and negotiation with various parties – look like
the product of their artistic genius. Besides, over the years Sidi Karim
has shown a considerable number of visitors around and in doing so he
will have constructed a certain narrative about the mosque design that is
nothing more than an authoritative interpretation of the creative process.
Taking his account with a grain of salt, then, I do think that his account of
the new Morabitun mosque as a space designed to ritually step out of time
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resonates with the way habitual visitors of the mosque experience and talk
about it. Several of the Granadino Muslims I talk with after Friday prayers
relate how the ‘classical’ design of the mosque tends to have a deepening
effect on the experience of prayer. Careful not to ascribe too much power
to the aesthetic quality of the place, they do experience the act of praying
in the Morabitun mosque as special compared to other spaces because
of the sense of connection with the Islamic heritage of Al Andaluz that it
evokes. This suggests that Sidi Karim’s story of the mosque design may be
illustrative of a common way of experiencing the mosque shared by others
in the Muslim community of Granada.
As such, his words may also show the limitations of a representational
approach to mosque design. From a representational point of view, Sidi
Karim’s preference for the ‘classical’ art of Al-Andaluz may be interpreted as a statement against Salafists or other Muslims who he considers
overmodernised. And I do, in fact, think that there is some truth in that
interpretation. Their origin in Sufi mysticism and fascination for Muslim
culture tend to prevent most Muslim converts in Andalusia from deeply
engaging with reformist Islamic trends, even though they have come
to accept the authority of the Sunna. Although there are differences of
opinion on this issue, aesthetic Islamic traditions are too dear to many
of them to become purists. Hence, the Mezquita Mayor of Granada can
indeed be read as an architectural statement against radical reformist
tendencies in Islam. But Sidi Karim also lives in a community of converts in which the engagement with Islamic art is encouraged as a human
technique to develop a religious habitus. In other words, the impact of
these imitative practices and desires is not merely political in the sense
that they serve as an identity marker vis-à-vis other Muslim groups. It
is also profoundly religious and aimed at the spiritual transformation of
the self.
In more general terms, I do think that a representational perspective
has its merits. It is a welcome alternative to the art history paradigm with
its roots in nineteenth-century historicism that explains architectural design in terms of epochs, Zeitgeist and regional variations, without taking the politics of the designing process seriously. A representational approach takes architects and commissioners to be rational, creative and
political agents rather than mere children of their time and place. But
applied to religious architecture, a representational perspective also tends
to reduce religious architectural expression to a question of power and
identity politics alone. In a period when Islam in Europe is already overpoliticised, this may obscure motivations of a pious or aesthetic nature.
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A final word about the question of beauty and religion. Obviously, this
is not an issue that can easily be settled. It is rather a productive dilemma
that shapes religious and artistic practices. What my conversations with the
new Muslims of Al-Andaluz do suggest, however, is that it may be useful
to make a distinction between sensational forms and sensational skills or
practices. The new Granada mosque as a sensational form – or more broadly Andalusian heritage as sensational form – remains a controversial issue
because of the doctrine of the divine’s radical transcendence, as explained
above. Even Sidi Karim would deny that God becomes perceptible in human creations. God is, in fact, far too great for human beings to contemplate or to materialise. Despite the doctrine of the oneness of God, however,
Islam does ascribe various attributes to the divine, and although it is accepted that human creations will never be able to portray the divine, they
may evoke some of the divine attributes such as beauty or timelessness. Yet
this remains a fiercely debated issue. It may, however, be less contentious to
call the recreation of Islamic art and architecture a sensational practice. As
I have argued, the development and mastering of these aesthetic skills is an
inextricable and important aspect of the Muslim way of life in Granada and
a method to immerse deeper in what it means to be a Muslim. In that sense,
being a Muslim convert in Andalusia is a profound aesthetic experience.
Notes




I thank Marieke Brand, Elena Arigita, Annelies Moors and Jojada Verrips for
their comments and assistance.
Personal communication with Elena Arigita.
All names are pseudonyms.
See Nils Bubandt () for a description of the Morabitun’s critique of
modern capitalism and its call to a return to material money in the form of
gold and silver.
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from Al-Andalus to the Virtual Ummah, London: Hurst, 223-234.
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Arigita, Elena & Rafael Ortega (2012) “From Syria to Spain: The Rise and
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The Israelite Temple of Florence
Ivan Kalmar
As the site of regularly performed religious rituals, religious buildings
are permanent, institutionalised sites for producing the Holy.1 But the
religious building also produces and reproduces – mainly through its architectural style and its location – the relationship between the religious
organisation and the wider community where the building stands. Here,
the religious is produced along with its relationship to the secular.2 The
religious buildings of minority faiths, in particular, create and reflect their
version of the Holy along with the struggle to define the status of the minority religion vis-à-vis not only the majority religion but also the secular polity where majority and minority live together. This essay examines
the case of the nineteenth-century so-called “Moorish-style” synagogue,
through the particular example of the Israelite Temple (tempio israelitico)
of Florence.
The history of the Florence temple is a specific example of the difficult
negotiations that must take place when a not-quite-welcome, not-quitetrusted minority wishes to advertise its rights and achievements – its integration without losing its identity – through an architectural landmark.
The actors making decisions on what and how to build were the community as well as the architects, and also the arbiter of local bourgeois taste,
the Reale Accademia delle Arti del Disegno.
Other than the painful dictates of cost, the community had a number
of priorities. These concerned the dimensions of both space (size and location) and style. The history of most Moorish-style synagogues reflects
a local community’s struggle to build large synagogues in conspicuous
places and to negotiate a style that asserts the greatness of Judaism as a
modern religion with respectable ancient roots. Taking place in the context of the struggle for legal and social emancipation, this struggle to present a grandiloquent image of the Jews would be taken to the very limits,
just a little shy of offending even sympathetic gentiles. It required decades
of difficult negotiations between the Jewish community and the Florentine elite.
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‘Moorish Style’: The Jew as Oriental
Moorish-style synagogues are instructive in part because they suggest
parallels to mosque building in the Western world today. Parallels exist
not only in the social and political function of the two kinds of religious
building but also in their aesthetic execution.
The situation of Muslim communities in the West today is in many
ways vastly different from that of Jewish communities a hundred and fifty
years ago. Nevertheless, there are important similarities. Nineteenthcentury Jews, like twenty-first-century Muslims, aimed to construct
religious buildings that would be noticed, in order to legitimate their
presence in both the physical and the social landscape. And nineteenthcentury Jews, too, often faced vigorous opposition from segments of the
public. These similarities in the political function of the mosque today
and the synagogue then mean that a look at nineteenth-century synagogue construction is of interest not only for its own sake but also as
something of a historical precedent for the building of mosques in the
West today.
There is more to the similarity between the synagogue then and the
mosque today, however. In addition to similarities of political function
(that is, of how the building represents the community’s relationship to
the wider polity), there are also specific, concrete similarities in those
cases where synagogues were built in the West in an Orientalising style,
traditionally called “Moorish” but in fact drawing on decorative elements
from throughout Islam. This same “Moorish” tradition of Western architectural decoration is an important historical source for those contemporary mosques whose builders have decided to give them an “Oriental” appearance. For while the mosque may include a conspicuous copy of some
architectural landmark in North Africa or the Middle East, the building
as a whole projects a Western reader whose idea of what is Oriental is
educated not by knowledge of any specific example from the East but
rather by familiarity with a long history of Western Orientalist decorative
idiom. The “Moorish style”, also known once as “Arabian”, is a Western
style of presenting Islamic architectural references. It started around the
time of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton (1787-1823) and then produced,
in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, a host of villas and palaces, concert halls, water towers, bars and cinemas, Masonic Halls and
synagogues. All sported the stereotypical horseshoe windows and doors,
domes, minarets and battlements referring to the “magic East” (Danby
1995).
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The long history of conflict between Jews and Muslims in historic Palestine has now succeeded in almost completely obscuring the fact that
well into the twentieth century, Judaism and Islam were often thought of
as kindred religions by Christians, and that Jews and Arabs were always
thought of as racial relatives – by everyone in the West, including Western
Jews themselves. Both were thought of as “Oriental” at a time when “Orient” meant principally the region from North Africa to West and Central
Asia. Since it was universally believed that the Jews, as Semites, were an
Oriental people racially akin to Arabs, many gentiles and Jews saw borrowing Arabic, and therefore Muslim, styles as the appropriate manner
for the surface finish of Jewish buildings.
Why did many Jews accede, including in making architectural decisions, to this view of themselves as Oriental outsiders to Europe? The
heyday of the Moorish-style synagogue coincided more or less with the
Romantic and neo-Romantic period in Western high and popular culture. Both the exotic and the archaic were admired by Romantics. Edward
Said recognised that Islamophobia and anti-Semitism were branches of
the same noxious tradition (Said 2003: 368). But conversely, Islamophilia,
for there was such a thing, was also akin to philo-Semitism, and both
were expressions of a more general Romantic philo-Orientalism or what
Raymond Schwab, admired by Said, called “the oriental Renaissance”
(Schwab 1984). Those who chose the Moorish style for their synagogue
were exploiting the philo-Semitic cachet of the Jews as an ancient people
from outside Europe.
The tempio israelitico of Florence, completed in 1882, is a fine example
of the mature stage of this style of synagogue building and decoration
(plate 19). The temple occupies a large dedicated lot. When viewed from
above, as from the famous lookout at Piazzale Michelangelo, the cupola of
the synagogue appears as a more modest reprise of the famous Brunelleschi dome of the city’s main duomo of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore.
This visual link to the majority Christian community’s iconic shrine is
exactly what the Jewish community had in mind, and the goal was at least
partly achieved – though, as we shall see, not without considerable struggle. The basically Christian church silhouette of the synagogue having
been accomplished, the decorative detail was made to evoke the Orient.
The combination made the message clear: this is a dignified place of worship of a people of Oriental origin who are fully at home in the Christian
West.
It was quite typical for the “Moorish” style in general for the Islamic allusion to be assimilated to more familiar Western elements, but also often
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to other exotic references. In the case of the Florentine synagogue, as in
many others, there are Byzantine as well as Islamic allusions. To read the
Byzantine element correctly, however, it needs to be remembered that in
the nineteenth century even more than today, the culture of Byzantium
was understood to be, like Islamic culture, one of the Orient. (Indeed, in
the Roman Empire and later within Christendom, the “East” or “Orient”
often meant the regions of Eastern Christianity.)
For Western Jews – as it would be for Western Muslims later – Oriental decoration stressed affiliations with eastern origins, while the essentials of the building design and, even more, modern Western construction
techniques, emphasised how compatible the non-Western religious tradition is with Western modernity. In both the Jewish and the Muslim cases,
the combination of Oriental ornament and Western fundament allows the
community to proudly assert its romantically exotic flourish without posing a serious threat to the conception of Western values as a universal
basis of a modern society, multicultural or otherwise.
Location and size
At first, the location and size of the synagogue seemed more important
than style. The Jews of Florence were, in spite of occasional setbacks,
acquiring a greater degree of civic and legal equality with their gentile
neighbours. In Tuscany, the Jews were given full civil rights only in 1861.
In the mid-nineteenth century, most still lived in the area of the justabolished ghetto but as in other European cities were moving outside of
it and wished to build a major synagogue in a non-traditional location.
Building new, representative synagogues at the outskirts of, or well beyond, the ghetto was part of the emancipation process. In 1847 already,
the Florentine Jews were thinking of a new place of worship, 3 but the
idea needed several decades to be realised. Marco Treves, the Jewish
architect who would be mainly responsible for the tempio, was chosen
for the job as early as 1860, 4 though the building was not completed until
1882.
The delay was largely due to long and difficult discussions about space.
The Jews of Florence, as in other West and Central European cities, wanted to declare that they would no longer hide. Until emancipation, most
European cities had permitted synagogues only if they were inconspicuous. Most Italian synagogues had been practically unmarked and looked
to passers-by as ordinary houses. Now Jews wished to symbolise their
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coming out onto the surface of public life by building a synagogue that
would be as visible as possible. In Florence, the idea was to be in, or as
close as possible, to the historic and religious – that is to say – Catholic
centre of the city, dominated by the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore,
better known as the Duomo.
Unfortunately, the community did not have the means to follow up on
such grandiose intentions. There is no evidence of any anti-Semitism in
the failure to build the synagogue near the Duomo. It appears, rather,
that the community did not have, or was not willing, to pay the price
demanded by the gentile owners (Boralevi 1985: 56-60). Therefore, there
was general relief and excitement when, in 1868, the president of the community, the Cavaliere David Levi, willed all his means for the completion
of a tempio. This did, however, mean that one had to wait for Levi to die,
which happened on 16 February 1870. And even then, the considerable
sum received by the community was not enough to purchase any of the
coveted downtown locations. Finally, in 1872, the present location was
chosen, fairly distant from the old centre (ibid: 60-63). The new lot lacked
the prestige of a historic location, but it was in a spot that was part of a
middle-class expansion to the green outskirts of the city, of which many
Jews were a part. Importantly, it was suitable for a sizeable garden that
was to surround the building, which itself – and this was of the greatest
importance – could be large.
For various reasons, some having to do with traditional Jewish prayer
practices and some with restrictions imposed by the non-Jewish authorities, synagogues before Jewish emancipation in Italy as elsewhere tended
to be, with some exceptions, no more than prayer rooms, with only a few
capable of comfortably seating more than a hundred worshippers. The
small size also accorded with the traditional prohibition against travel on
the Sabbath. Many small synagogues were more practical for worshippers who had to arrive on foot, than a few large ones. However, from the
late eighteenth century on, many Jewish communities wished to stress
their desired or actual emancipation by no longer trying to stay out of
sight. Though many of the Orthodox objected, for modernising Jews in
the nineteenth century – be it in Florence or in Manchester, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, St. Petersburg, New York or Cincinnati – size did
matter when it came to synagogue building. In Turin, the exotic skyscraper now known as Mole Antonielliana was originally projected by
the over-ambitious Jewish community, who had to sell the unfinished
building when they ran out of money. The tempio israelitico of Florence
was built following this ideal of large size. The community never hav-
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ing numbered more than a few thousand at most, it is unlikely that the
building has ever been overly filled with worshippers. What was more
important was that it demonstrated through its size, to Jew and Gentile
alike, the importance and confidence of the Jews in Florence, in Italy and
in Europe.
Style
With the lot finally won, the Jewish community turned to the question
of style. Tour guides today maintain that the “Moorish” style of the synagogue is an expression of nostalgia for medieval Islamic Spain, where
some of the ancestors of the local Jewish community are said to have come
from.5 This is false on several counts.
The large conspicuous dome has no precedent in Islamic Spain, where
domes were simply not part of the architecture of mosques or synagogues.
Moreover, the Moorish style, which was more or less set in the first half of
the nineteenth century, developed at a time when the famous synagogues
of Cordoba, Seville and Toledo were not widely known outside of Spain.
Clearly, although there are important references to Muslim Spain at the
Florentine tempio, especially in its interior decoration, these came to the
construction team not directly from Spain but from the well-established
tradition of Moorish-style building in Europe. These relied heavily on the
sketches of ornamental detail from the Alhambra of Granada, published
in various forms by or under the leadership of Owen Jones (who had made
careful drawings of the Moorish monument himself ) between 1836 and
1845.6
There is proof nearby, at the palace of Sanmezzano, 34 kilometres from
Florence, that the influence of the Alhambra did not necessarily have anything to do with a sort of nostalgia for the Jewish past in Muslim Spain.
Sanmezzano was the residence of the eccentric Ferdinando Panciatichi
Ximenes d’Aragona. Since Panciatichi was of Spanish origin, he may be
thought to have chosen the Moorish style in order to pay homage to his
Iberian heritage. Yet at Sanmezzano, allusions to Persia outweighed those
to Muslim Spain.
True, there was a belief among Western Jews that still survives today
and which holds that in Muslim Spain, Jews lived an ideal existence, appreciated by the Muslim rulers and playing an important part in the state
and society. This belief was made popular by nineteenth-century German
Jewish scholars, who held out the supposed bliss of Muslim Spain as an
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example for increasingly anti-Semitic Europe. So it is possible that this
notion would have impressed the Jews of Florence, especially since it is
true that some, though not all of them, reckoned themselves of Spanish
descent.
It is possible that it would have impressed them, but it didn’t. The documentary evidence completely belies this tour-guide narrative. Unfortunately in Florence as elsewhere, the symbolic core of the Moorish-style
synagogue has been reinterpreted in order to tell an exclusively Jewish
story, erasing all allusions to kinship with Arabs and Islam. Furthermore,
the current local narrative also erases the agency of the non-Jewish Italian
community.
In truth, the Jewish community did not initially want to build in an Orientalist style at all. They intended to take the second choice I mentioned
above: to emphasise sameness, not difference. In the heart of Florence at
the time, the default unmarked style was neo-Renaissance. The boldest,
most provocative element of the original design was the roof: it was to be
topped by an unmistakable copy of the famous Brunelleschi dome of the
Duomo, the pride of the Florentine Renaissance and one of its dearest
symbols.
This rejected design survives in the archives of the Reale Accademia
delle Arti del Disegno.7 The Jewish community felt obliged to get its project approved by this august body founded by Michelangelo. This was not
a legal requirement but was a strategic move for reasons of prestige that
could not have hurt the community once it requested the necessary building permits from the city. What the officials of the Università did not expect was the shock that the academicians expressed at the idea of the Jews
building one of the city’s most conspicuous religious buildings, and building it in a style that recalled a church. In their meeting of 23 November
1872, they showed considerable unease about how to put such misgivings
to the Jews. Finally they agreed on striking a committee that was to report
back to them. Prof. Giuseppe Cappellini went on record saying that:
... the [suggestions of the] Commission should be accepted and carried
out, and regardless of what its views may be, and one must have the
courage of one’s own convictions to tell all the truth.8
It was, it seems, Prof. de Fabris who was charged with an investigation
that would be specifically designed to uncover what was being done in
synagogue building in the German-speaking countries. De Fabris came
back with a written opinion, which he read to the assembled. However,
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the Secretary, Prof. Francolini, was not particularly satisfied with what
seemed to him an unexpectedly mild criticism of the temple project. One
has to point out, he said,
... the wretchedness, once again, of the same vis-à-vis the sublime idea
of a Temple offered to the Divinity (be it of the Israelite cult), and one
must decide for a total rejection.9
Francolini and Cappellini insisted, and the whole group ended up asking
De Fabris to redraft his opinion before it was sent to the Jewish community.
The revised letter was approved on 5 December 1872 and signed by all
those present. “In sum”, the letter argued,
... it seems to the College that as each Nation has impressed its history
on Monuments of a religious nature, so also a building with the aforementioned purpose must stand out at first sight in a manner that recalls
the dates and places that are the most interesting for that Religion, and
must possess such a character that it may not be confused with the religious or civil monuments of other Nations and Religions.
The need to build in a distinctive style was, then, essentially conveyed to
the Jews by the gentile College of Architects. It was a repetition of the history of the Moorish-style synagogue itself, which appears to have begun
with the decision of the Bavarian government in the 1830s to build officially sanctioned places of worship for the Jews. (The first known Moorish-style synagogue was the small prayer house at Ingenheim, which had
a Moorish-style door.)10 Repeating a question previously asked in other
parts of Europe, the architects of the Accademia next considered just what
a distinctively Jewish style would be. They suggested that the solution lies:
... in reminiscences of the Arab style, and in general of Monuments
scattered in Asia Minor, or if you wish of the Byzantine [style]. (...) The
Israelite Council is surely in a position to appreciate how far from this
one is taken by the organic elements of the Romanesque style, and the
forms of the Renaissance, of which one sees patent references in the
Project submitted.11
This argument was identical to the one expressed by the Viennese architect Ludwig von Förster, who had constructed the ground-breaking
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Moorish-style synagogues of Vienna-Tempelgasse (1858) and BudapestDohány utca (1859). In a published explanation of his thinking about the
Budapest temple, Förster had suggested that:
It is known to be a difficult task indeed to build an Israelite Temple in
a form required by the religion and suitable for its practice, and at the
same time corresponding, at least in its essential features, to the hallowed ideal of all temples, the Temple of Solomon. It is doubly difficult
in so far as [the building’s] external architecture is concerned, for the
existing records cannot nearly provide us with a reliable picture; and
those Houses of God that belong to a later time either lack any distinct
style or carry features that are in their inner being entirely alien to the
Israelite religion.
In my humble opinion the right way, given the circumstances, is to
choose, when building an Israelite Temple, those architectural forms
that have been used by oriental ethnic groups that are related to the
Israelite people, and in particular the Arabs ... (Förster 1859: 14).
Förster, who was a very prominent architect in Vienna, may or may not
have had a direct influence on the Italians in Florence, but in any case
they agreed on the same rationale for choosing the style of a synagogue.
This had nothing to do with nostalgia for Spain but rather expressed the
belief that Jews as the cousins of Arabs should build in an Oriental, not a
European, style.
Disarmed, yet deeply desirous of the approval of the gentile elite, the
Jews of Florence obliged. Summing up the project after it was completed,
the project supervisor Eduardo Vitta reported that:
[the] Temple is of the oriental style derived from the Arabic and the
Moorish styles, observed in the monuments of Egypt and of Spain,
modified, however, and adapted to its times, its function, and its location (Vitta 1883: 5).
Elements of the dome, Vitta added, recalled “those of monumental
mosques and of the tombs of the caliphs that are found in Cairo” (ibid: 6).
Vitta did point out that the interior was expressly modeled on the Alhambra, though it is clear that the decorators were working under the influence of contemporary Orientalist decoration in general.
Vitta says nothing about the Alhambra recalling any Golden Age of the
Jews. In the context, it is clearly just one architectural and ornamental
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model – though an important one – from the Islamic world, along with
those from specifically Egypt, and in the spirit of the Accademia architects’ suggestion for Jews to imitate the Arab world.
The Florence temple was designed by Marco Treves, Mariano Falcini
and Vincenzo Micheli. It seems that Treves, a Jew, was the main spirit behind it; the others were perhaps only Paradegoyim, “goys for show” to use
a contemporary Viennese expression. Treves’ attitude was characteristic
of the community. Soon enough, they accepted the programme suggested
by the Accademia with great enthusiasm. Other Italian Jewish communities embraced the architectural expression of their eastern identity. In
1878, the northern community of Vercelli completed a synagogue following an even more boldly Orientalist design by Treves.
Conclusion
These temples proudly joined the ranks of other Moorish-style synagogues built for – and increasingly by – the Jews, the Oriental nation in
the West. Some of the buildings still stand today or have been renovated,
while most of the less significant examples are gone. At one time, however, the fundamentally European but Islamic-decorated Moorish-style
synagogue could be seen, proudly clashing with its architectural environment, not only in Italy but almost everywhere that Western Jews lived or
had influence: Liverpool, Antwerp, Berlin, Prague, Budapest, St. Petersburg, Cincinnati, New York, Pretoria and even, under Western influence
and partly for Western Jews, in Istanbul and Cairo (Kalmar 2001).
The exchange between the Accademia and the Florentine Jewish community illustrates the difficult symbiosis between gentiles and Jews in the
context of the increasing but contested acceptance of the Jews as equal
subjects of the wider polity of the city, the state and the continent. The
struggle over the style of the local synagogue was one of symbolic capital.
The Jews of Florence originally wished to use a style that would eradicate
the difference between themselves and the Catholic majority. Yet this was
a community bent on acculturation, not total assimilation. The suggestion that they should build in a different yet equally monumental style
appealed to the goal of both remaining distinct and being included in the
larger community.
Europe-wide, it is instructive that the first Moorish-style elements
were incorporated into synagogue building by gentile architects and, it
seems, under pressure by the secular political authorities. It is possible
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that the horseshoe windows on Prague’s Grossenhof Synagogue date to
the rebuilding after the fire of 1754 (Hammer-Schenk 1988). But a more
unequivocal beginning was made only much later, in the 1830s, in the
erstwhile Kingdom of Bavaria. Here, the important architect Friedrich
von Gärtner appears to have been involved in a plan to build several synagogues in Moorish style. The first may have been the one at Ingenheim,
built between 1830 and 1832 (Hammer-Schenk 1981). But as the style matured in the last part of the nineteenth century, many liberal, Western
Jewish communities as well as Jewish architects embraced it enthusiastically (Kalmar 2001: 84-88).
True enough, there continued to be also Jewish voices against the
Moorish-style synagogue, wishing to emphasise Jewish sameness, not
Jewish difference. Among the many reasons why these eventually won
out was the demise of Romantic Orientalism, as “Semite” changed from a
moniker of intriguing exoticism to an epithet for the noxious outsider. To
be mourned, however, is the sense, now so difficult to reconstruct, that
Jew and Muslim were akin, two of the same Oriental kind.
One place where similarities between the two groups do resurface is in
the issues faced by mosque builders today and synagogue builders in the
nineteenth and early twentieth century. No doubt today Muslim communities face the same challenge in choosing the style of a mosque: whether
to exoticise decorative elements over modern construction, stressing the
ability of the old tradition to adapt as an equal to modern society, or to
adopt a style that erases all but the ritually prescribed differences from
secular buildings and those of other religions, underlining the complete
integration of the minority community.
Notes



Here I follow Roy Rappaport’s view of the Holy as produced by ritual (Rappaport : -).
That the religious and the secular are in principle produced together is the
thesis of Talal Asad (: ).
Archives of the Jewish Community of Florence (then Università Israelitica,
now Comunità Israelitica di Firenze), box //, “Rilievi per servire di delucidazione all’unito Progetto sviluppato dal sottoscritto Architetto ...” signed
and dated by the architect Marano Falcini,  April . I am indebted for
this and most of my other information from the archives of the Jewish Community to Alberto Boralevi, “La costruzione della sinagoga di Firenze,” in Il
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centenario del tempio israelitico di Firenze: Atti del Convegno . ott. ‘,
Firenze: Giuntina, . Unfortunately, this excellent article by a leading
Florentine curator is not widely available.
 Letter from the governing council (Consiglio Governativo) of the Jewish
Community to Treves,  January  (Archives of the Università Israelitica. Boralevi, La costruzione, ).
 The first-listed website about the synagogue on google.com (http://www.
jewishitaly.org/detail.asp?ID=, accessed  March ) states: “Because
the Florentine Jews were Sephardic, the design of their synagogue recalls the
Muslim art of Moorish Spain.”
 See, for example, Owen Jones, Pascual de Gayangos and Remnant & Edmonds, eds. Plans, Elevations, Sections, and Details of the Alhambra.
 Atti della Reale Accademia delle Arti del Disegno in Firenze, .
 si deve accettare la Commissione ed adempirla, e qualunque sia il parere, e si
deve avere il coraggio della propria opinione, e di dire tutto il vero.
 ... si dovesse dimostrare, he said, la meschinità ancora del medesimo di fronte
all’idea sublime di un Tempio destinato alla Divinitá, sia pure del culto Israelitico; e si debbe concludere per il totale rigetto.
 On Moorish-style synagogues in general, see Ivan D. Kalmar (: -).
 Reale Accademia delle Arti del Disegno in Firenze to the President of the
Council of the Israelite Community of Firenze,  December . Archives of
the Jewish Community of Florence.
References
Asad, Talal (2003) Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Boralevi, Alberto (1985) “La costruzione della sinagoga di Firenze”, in Il
centenario del tempio israelitico di Firenze: Atti del Convegno 24. ott.
’82, Firenze: Giuntina.
Danby, Miles (1995) Moorish Style. London: Phaidon.
Förster, Ludwig (1859) “Das israelitische Bethaus in der Wiener Vorstadt
Leopoldstadt”, Allgemeine Bauzeitung, 14-15.
Hammer-Schenk, Harold (1981) Synagogen in Deutschland: Geschichte
einer Baugattung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (1780-1933), Hamburg:
H. Christians.
— (1988) “Die Architektur der Synagoge von 1780 bis 1933”, in Die Architektur der Synagogue, Hans-Peter Schwarz (ed.). Stuttgart: KlettCotta, 157-286.

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Kalmar, Ivan D. (2001) “Moorish Style: Orientalism, the Jews, and Synagogue Architecture”, Jewish Social Studies: History, Culture, and Society Vol. 7, no. 3: 68-100.
Owen Jones, Pascual de Gayangos and Remnant & Edmonds (eds.) (18421845) Plans, Elevations, Sections, and Details of the Alhambra. London: Published in several volumes by Owen Jones.
Rappaport, Roy A. (1999) Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity.
New York: Cambridge University Press.
Said, E.W. (2003) Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books.
Schwab, Raymond (1984) The Oriental Renaissance: Europe’s Rediscovery of India and the East, 1680-1880. New York: Columbia University
Press.
Vitta, Eduardo (1883) Relazione a corredo del rendiconto dei lavori eseguiti per la costruzione del Tempio israelitico di Firenze. Florence,
self-published.
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The Mosque in Britain Finding its Place
Shahed Saleem
Before the census of 2001, there was no way of accurately determining
the size of the Muslim population in Britain, as previous censuses did not
categorise religious affiliation. The best estimates, in 1991, concluded that
the Muslim population at the time stood at one million, with 80 being
of South Asian origin. The remainder were drawn mostly from the Arab
world, Malaysia, Iran, Turkey, Cyprus, and East and West Africa (Lewis
2004: 14). With natural growth, continuing globalisation and post-colonial migration fuelled by economic hardship and conflict, more migrants
arrived in Britain from other parts of the Muslim world. By the 2001 census, the Muslim population had risen to 1.5 million, now with some 65
of South Asian origin, indicating the increasing multi-ethnic make-up of
Britain’s Muslim population.
Although references to Muslims in Britain date back to the fifteenth
century, the first settled communities emerged in the late nineteenth century. The country’s first mosque was created not by Muslim migrants but
by an English convert to Islam, Abdullah William Quilliam, who adapted a
house in Liverpool into the first recorded mosque in 1887. In 1889, a Hungarian Jew had built the first purpose-built mosque in Woking, south of
London (plate 20). There were then only two more built examples to follow before the Second World War, one in south London by the Ahmadiyya
community in 1925 and the other in Cardiff in 1946.
Imperial Britain had over centuries established multiple political, cultural and social links with its colonies, where most of its subjects were
Muslim. It was through these imperial projects that Muslim communities
first settled in Britain, coming to the country, for example, as seamen, students and scholars. These early settled communities formed in the port
areas of Cardiff, Liverpool, South Shields and East London. A series of
mosques were established in converted houses, and one was built by the
late 1940s by Yemeni sailors in Cardiff ’s Tiger Bay. The Muslim community until the Second World War was mostly limited to port towns or was
otherwise intellectuals, students, dignitaries or converts in and around
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London. It was from this milieu that the London Mosque Fund emerged
in 1910, a movement that would eventually have a hand in the creation of
two of London’s major Muslim institutions, the East London Mosque and
the Regent’s Park Mosque.
After the Second World War, with the advent of decolonisation, large
numbers of Muslims settled in Britain from certain parts of South Asia,1
and the Muslim population proliferated. Much of this migration was from
specific areas of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, and chain migration networks were established which transported whole sections of communities and their respective cultures to British towns (Ansari 2004: 145). It
was the social characteristics of these migrants and the Muslim culture
they brought that established the framework for the evolution of postwar British Muslim culture and architecture in the subsequent decades.
It was a Muslim demography and culture that was profoundly different
in scale, dynamics and culture from the Muslim environment of the early
twentieth century.
In 1951, the estimate for Britons of Pakistani and Bangladeshi descent stood at 5,000, and by 1991 the figure had reached 640,000 (Lewis
2004: 15). Muslim migrants came from a few specific locales, namely
the north Indian state of Gujarat, the Pakistani states of Punjab and
Azad Kashmir, and from Sylhet in Bangladesh. There were a number of
social and economic processes at play that resulted in these migratory
networks being established. These are identified as being primarily socio-economic, combined with cultures of emigration in search of work.
Migrants settled in urban areas across the uk, following employment
opportunities and consolidating social and communal networks. Consequently, Muslim communities emerged in Britain’s main industrial
conurbations: London, the West Midlands, Yorkshire and Lancashire,
Clydeside in Scotland. A number of factors combined to produce these
settlement patterns: ‘social support, and shared linguistic, cultural and
religious traditions’ (Ansari 2004: 176), along with cheap housing and
the experience of social and institutional racism all played a part. The
result is that Muslim communities resulted largely ‘in spatially defined
areas within the major industrial cities corresponding to the late-Victorian and Edwardian inner and middle-ring neighbourhoods ... The
highly regular and well-differentiated layout of the industrial urban
landscape, characterised by regular streets, long street blocks, standardised plot sizes and repetitive two storey terraces, formed a morphological frame governing [the] urban change’ (Nasser 2003: 8) that
was to follow.
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The Muslim communities that emerged from the 1960s were, on the
whole, ‘very successful in reproducing their traditional social and cultural
world[s]’ (Lewis 2004: 18). This description was not restricted to South
Asian settlers. A study of Yemenis in Britain described them as forming an
‘‘urban village ... living within its own socially, linguistically and ethnically
defined borders’ (ibid: 19).
Communal structures from places of origin were replicated in their
new environments. For example, the Muslims of Bharuch, Gujarat, already lived in India in considerably self-contained enclaves, a pattern that
was repeated and indeed intensified in Blackburn, with chain migration
reproducing village and kin networks (ibid). It was the arrival of families
in the 1960s that changed the nature of these early settler communities.
Prior to this demographic event, ‘Indians, Yemenis and Turkish Cypriots
[had] lived together in boarding houses ... sharing more or less the same
religious facilities’ (Ansari 2004: 343). It was the reuniting of families that
led to the gradual separation of Muslim migrants to form ‘ethnic settlements’, and it was from within these distinct cultural and ethnic groupings that institutions started to form. It was the size and concentration
of these emergent Muslim communities that enabled them to ‘generate
and sustain institutional and economic infrastructure that embodied and
perpetuated specific religious and cultural norms. What emerged at the
end of the 1970s was a patchwork of communities, each impressing its
particular national, ethnic, linguistic and doctrinal character on the organisations it created’ (ibid).
This was the cultural context from which the mosque, as the primary
social institution, emerged in Britain post-1960, its role being as much a
place of practical support and cultural comfort as of religious provision.
These mosques ‘were primarily concerned with the promotion of worship
and religious life, the encouragement of ‘fraternal’ links in Muslim communities, the provision of assistance and moral support for individuals
... and the improvement of social, cultural and educational conditions’
(ibid). The result was that the handful of mosques that existed in Britain
up to 1960 snowballed over the decades to follow.
The mosques that were established in these early post-war years were
rudimentary operations, formed mostly from converted houses or other
buildings that were adapted to serve a new religious function. The ‘portability’ of Islamic rituals meant that a mosque could be created with the
most elemental of alterations, in essence the opening up of rooms to form
prayer halls, where congregants could perform the prayer in rows, facing
Mecca.
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As mosques proliferated across the country, certain architectural patterns emerged. Either houses or other non-domestic buildings were converted into places for Muslim worship, or mosques were built as new
structures. These new mosque typologies can be broadly outlined as follows.
Mosque Typologies
House mosques are simply dwellings that have been converted to function
as mosques and have undergone various degrees of internal and sometimes external adaptations. The conversion of the house is usually rudimentary, with the emphasis being on the creation of as much open floor
space as possible to accommodate the maximum number of worshippers
in as unified a space as possible. Islamic symbolism will usually be limited
to signage and the mihrab and minbar,2 which could be a simple timber
structure of a few steps, with a specific prayer mat for the Imam.
Converted mosques are non-residential buildings that have been converted to form mosques. Examples of these are quite varied, including former warehouses, banks, public houses and churches. The extent of building work in converting buildings varies widely. Some may have minimal
alterations to enable the building to function as a mosque, while others
may involve extending, cladding and adding religious symbolism to the
extent that the original building can be difficult to discern.
The purpose-built mosque is one that has been built from the ground
as a new mosque. They could be built on a completely new site or in some
cases as a replacement of a pre-existing mosque that had been formed
through a conversion. The purpose-built mosque is often the culmination
of a Muslim community’s mosque development trajectory, a journey that
generally starts with a house mosque or converted building that is eventually found to be insufficient to cater to the needs of a growing Muslim
population and is then replaced with a larger purpose-built facility.
Wider responses to the mosque
This new urban form did not go unnoticed and indeed was quickly to
become a highly contested object in the urban field. The mosque became
a symbol around which notions of identity could be played out, eliciting both crude and complex reactions in which notions of civic rights
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and cultural identity were enmeshed. Architecture became the carrier of
embodied notions of home and ‘Other’. One objector to the design of a
mosque in south London in 1977 encapsulated this complexity:
When I moved to Ryfold Road some 15 months ago, one of my reasons
for selecting the area was that it was a pleasant, quiet, typically turnof-the-century residential area. Architecturally, the locality, including
the church in Ryfold Road, forms a consistent whole, with buildings of
characteristic and pleasing proportions. I feel that the introduction of a
minaret into Wimbledon (plate 21) would be completely out of character
as to be a serious detriment to the area. I can believe, and accept freely,
that there is a need for a place of worship such as the mosque in this area,
but feel that a minaret is not an essential adjunct to such worship.3
What is interesting is the nuance of this comment in that it suggests acceptance of migration and associated minority cultural practices but argues that these should not alter the physical landscape of what is understood to be an unchanging and consistent English suburbia. This type of
objection, against the architecture of the mosque and what it signifies
for English identity, has been a common theme throughout mosque establishment across the country. For example, the following objection was
submitted to the Noor-ul-Islam mosque in Bolton in 1994:
I would like to express my very strong objection to this eyesore for the
following reason. Although we now live in a multicultural society, it is
England after all, and we do not wish our hometown to resemble New
Delhi. It is so annoying and depressing to have our town taken over like
this.4
Despite such objections, which have been a consistent characteristic of
mosque proposals, the dome and minaret have persisted, which shows
the depth of meaning these symbols have to the Muslim communities.
In a number of cases, for example with the Brick Lane Jamia Mosque,
the minaret was added some thirty years after the building was well established, again illustrating the enduring relevance of this object for the
mosque. These symbols have come to characterise Muslim architecture in
Britain for both Muslims and non-Muslims, and debates around mosques
have often fixated on these elements.
As a result, the symbol of the dome, arch and minaret has become
the default signage for Muslim buildings: they ‘are being deployed as a
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shorthand for a Muslim presence, reinforcing a vocabulary understood in
the West as representing Islam, and thus representing a specific identity’
(Nasser 2003: 15). The aesthetic character of the purpose-built mosques
that emerged in the two decades from the 1980s, the first ‘wave’ of mass
mosque-building, is captured in this description of the Ghamkol Sheriff
mosque in Birmingham (plate 22):
the mosque’s stylistic expression is one of ambivalence. The building
has all the usual ‘Islamic’ architectural imagery; however, it is difficult
to trace its referent. As such, these reductionist, albeit imagined signifiers, are combined with local forms and materials to create a stylistic
hybridity. In particular, the fusion of brickwork and slate roofing with
an eclectic array of fenestrations, domes and a minaret, represent what
Gale and Naylor call ‘stylistic domestication’ – an aesthetic form that is
not reducible to any particular tradition. (Nasser 2003: 16)
The role of the mosque in the spatialisation of Islam
Mosques emerged in areas of high Muslim populations, which in turn
attracted Muslims to the area, with consequent visual, domestic and social impacts on the streets, leading to what some academics have called
the ‘Islamisation of space’ (Eade 1996). Racism and exclusion also left migrants in a cultural no man’s land, suspended between a home culture
they were disconnected from and in danger of losing, and a host society
that excluded them completely. As families were reunited in Britain and
children were born indigenously, the prospect of such alienation for the
next generation was a cause for deep concern. This was allied with the
cultural distance that migrants felt towards majority White social practices, whereby the ‘West’ was imagined as ‘materialist, exploitative, licentious, and at once, godless and Christian’ (Metcalf 1996: 7). It was this lack
of a religious infrastructure to maintain and transfer traditions and values
that served as a significant motivation for the establishment of mosques
where religious ritual and education could be enacted and religious practice could be transferred and maintained.
A study of mosques in Bradford describes the mosques established
by the first generation of migrants from South Asia as ‘vehicles for the
dynamic reconstruction of tradition and culture so as to advance subaltern group interests in contexts of rapid social change ... [providing] an
important space – for first-generation immigrants especially – to resist
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assimilation, navigate social exclusion and organise self-help ... [by] creating continuity of experience in terms of institutional form, religious rituals and specialists, and social relationships’ (McLoughlin 2006: 1060).
The paper also notes that this process and role of community institutionbuilding is historically not exclusive to Muslim migrants: ‘Many firstgeneration peasant and working-class immigrants from East European
Jews to Irish Catholics, have adopted this same strategy of survival in
Britain’ (ibid).
However, it is important to note that the mosque is not the only, or
indeed the primary, way in which Muslim space is constructed. ‘Ritual
and sanctioned practice that is prior to and that creates “Muslim space”,
does not require any juridicially claimed territory or formally consecrated
or architecturally specific space’ (Metcalf 1996: 3). This means that the
mosque is one part of a matrix of Muslim practices that together constitute Muslim culture and identity in Britain. That is to say that the mosque,
therefore, is not essential – prayer is, which can be carried out almost
anywhere. The mosque, therefore, fulfils a symbolic role with a range of
messages from presence to permanence and also serves to replicate a religious and social institution familiar to the migrants’ origins.
The mosque in Britain does not, however, simply represent the relocation of a religious institution from a ‘home’ culture into a new ‘Western’
one, it also offers a transforming social and religious order within Muslim
discourse. Firstly, although many mosques in Britain are denominationally dominant, they nevertheless serve to combine plural Muslim religious
practices from different parts of the world. They therefore serve as hubs
for a globalising Muslim community and effect a shift towards a generic
form of religious practice and understanding that starts to leave regional
and denominational differences behind. This can be seen as a characteristic of diaspora mosques in the ‘West’ where, for example, ‘in the United
States, the Islamic Society of North America ... has particularly urged
Muslims to overcome ethnic customs in favour of a shared normative
practice ... [here] Muslims strip away centuries of innovation and succeed
in getting to the essence’ (Metcalf 1996 10).
These findings emerged from an academic research committee in the
us in the late 1980s. One of the key points of this research was that diaspora Muslim communities settled in the ‘West’ – referred to as ‘border
populations’ – constituted a wholly new potential for the evolution and
development of Muslim cultural practice. This new practice emerged from
the new realities that migrated Muslim populations found themselves in,
where they were minorities within majority non-Muslim societies and
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were ruptured from the cultural trajectory of their homeland, forced to
address new relationships with globally diverse Muslim communities.
The potential is that this ‘border’ situation sets up a new social and
cultural context from which the mosque could possibly be reinvented,
functionally and visually. For Britain’s urban history, it is a new typology, brought into being by formations of Muslim society that are without
precedent. What this mosque is, what it does and what it looks like is now
open to reinterpretation.
Explorations: The first mosques
An architectural interrogation of what the mosque could be in its new
British context can be seen in early mosque architecture from the first
mosque at Woking through to the Regent’s Park Mosque of the late 1970s.
The mosque in Woking, the first built example, is quite an elaborate
and expressive affair and reflects the late eighteenth-century Mughal style
in India. Architectural elements of the onion dome, the central portico
entrance, the arched doorways and niches were prevalent throughout the
Mughal period and in later buildings become noticeably more sculptural.
Such buildings were familiar in late nineteenth-century England through
popular engravings and exhibitions. The mosque is therefore a perfect example of high Victorian eclecticism, a fantastic folly in a woodland evoking the lure and mystery of the Orient.
The next mosque to be built, Fazl Mosque in south London, consists of
a single prayer hall, just seven metres by ten metres (plate 23). On the side
elevations, tall narrow windows with rounded arches are located within
each bay between vertical piers. At each corner of the building are simple
cupolas, which are a characteristic element of Indian Mughal architecture. These elements, however, are treated in a way that starts to depart
from the Oriental imagery that characterised its predecessor at Woking.
From here the idea of the mosque as a British Islamic building influenced
by contemporary trends in modernism and art deco can be explored.
Fazl Mosque is architecturally significant in that it marks a departure
from the high Victorian Orientalism of buildings such as Woking, the
Brighton Pavillion and Sezincote House, and presents instead a restrained
Islamic language infused with a sense of contemporary 1920s art deco.
Fazl was therefore a radical and progressive departure and could be said
to mark the end of exotic architectural representations of the ‘East’, and so
the end of the Orientalist genre in British architecture.
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Two mosques were built in Cardiff, the first in 1946 and the next in
1967. It was the latter, Alice Street mosque, that was demolished some ten
years after it was completed to make way for the current mosque building.
It nevertheless represented a significant experiment in mosque design.
As a building it was determinedly contemporary, reflecting the stylistic
influences of post-war British Modernism that had been emerging since
the early 1950s. The plan is a simple arrangement of a circular prayer hall,
with an offset rectangular two-storey residence linked back to the prayer
hall with a single-storey entrance lobby. The prayer hall is topped with
a concrete shell roof with glazed side panels and glazed flat roof infill
sections. This is a contemporary reinterpretation of the traditional dome
that draws from the heroic Modernist architecture of the 1950s and 1960s.
The prayer hall and lobby are rendered, and the residential block is brick
faced. The only concessions to traditional Islamic styles are found in the
detailing of the entrance doors and lobby windows, which have ogeearched frameworks. A series of smaller windows to the lobby are triangular shaped, being neither strictly traditionally Islamic nor modernist, but
cleverly acceptable to both.
This mosque has discarded any allusions to traditionalism and opted
for a decidedly modern approach, showing confidence and experimentation. While it seems the experiment did not pay off, the building being
demolished ten years later, it nevertheless stands as the first modernist
exploration of the mosque in Britain and remains to this day one of the
most contemporary examples of a British mosque.
Although a small mosque was built in Preston in 1969, the next major
mosque to be built, and to continue the investigation in the language of
mosque architecture in Britain, was Regent’s Park mosque in central London, which was also the largest to date (plate 24).
This was the country’s first monumental landmark mosque and was
built to represent Islam in Britain on a world stage. An international competition was held in 1969 to find a suitable design, which was won by Sir
Frederick Gibberd, one of the first generation of British modernist architects and very much a member of the architectural establishment at the
time.
The competition was won just two years after Gibberd had completed
Liverpool Cathedral, a radical and avant-garde expression of the Catholic
Church in the city centre. Regent’s Park mosque, therefore, was Gibberd’s
second monumental religious building, completed just over a decade after
Liverpool. It received architectural criticism at the time for its reversion
to traditional Islamic elements of the dome, minaret and pointed arch.
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However, Gibberd’s argument was that these were the symbols that gave
the building near universal meaning for Muslims and were important to
incorporate especially, as this was the first major mosque in the uk.
The mosque incorporates and interprets these traditional Islamic
motifs in a way that is neither literally traditional nor overtly abstract.
The forms are actually quite recognisable but are contemporised mainly
through their materiality, which was thoroughly of its time. The façade
units were pre-cast concrete panels, mixed with Derbyshire Spar aggregate and white cement, giving a smooth deep-ground finish. The minaret
also rises as a thick concrete column alongside a copper dome, and the
internal floors were polished terrazzo.
Gibberd’s design was required to sit comfortably with John Nash’s
Cumberland Terrace on the southwestern edge of the Park as well as represent Islam in Britain and respect the majestic setting of Regent’s Park.
It was a complex context requiring the mosque to dance to a set of differing tunes. The result is a stately building rising from mature trees on the
park’s edge, being both an Islamic icon and an encapsulation of the tail
end of Britain’s modernist era.
Post-war: Self-building mosques
These early mosques materialised from among the first Muslims that
were forming settled communities in Britain. These communities were
small and localised, and they used local non-Muslim architects to make
their ideas manifest and then give them architectural form. The result was
a handful of buildings that each, in their own way, explores the idea of the
mosque in Britain.
After the decolonisation of India and its subsequent partition, Muslims
from the region migrated in large numbers. These communities rapidly
built mosques, and their numbers proliferated. The process of designing
and building mosques was now very different to those built by the first
communities. Now designers were sought from within the community or
non-Muslim architects were more closely directed as to the visual syntax
of what the mosque should be.
The aesthetic culture of the places from which Muslim communities
originate played a determining factor in the expression of these post-war
mosques in Britain. With the majority of the Muslim population originating in South Asia, it was Indian Mughal styles that were largely replicated.
For example, the converted church of Brent mosque had limited scope for
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Muslim signification with the only possibility being a series of smallish
domes on key locations. These domes were designed as replicas of the
Jamma Masjid in Delhi, in the distinct Mughal style of the onion dome
with spire.
There are two main schools of religious thought brought to Britain by
south Asian migrants – the Deobandi and the Barelwi – both originating
from religious traditions founded in India. As most mosques were established by south Asian migrants, these traditions can be seen to have had
their own influences on design. It is the Deoband mosques that are more
likely to move away from Indian references, even where communities
originate in South Asia. For example, with the Leicester Jameah mosque,
a North African Fatimid language was chosen, and for the earlier Masjid-e-Noor in Preston, a rounder, plainer dome is used. This can be contrasted to the onion-shaped and pointed dome of the nearby Reza masjid,
a Barelwi mosque which is also adorned with fluttering green flags and
coloured lights. For the Barelwi, their emphasis on demonstrating emotional attachment to God and the Prophet Muhammed carries through to
architecture and aesthetics, which are therefore duly demonstrative. The
Deoband prefer a plainer, more austere expression, perhaps showing their
devotion through rigorous religious practice, which takes priority over
the architecture.
Mosques by non-South-Asian communities again differ in their design
approach and can be seen to reflect the traditions of their places of origin.
This is particularly evident in Turkish community mosques, which can
be seen to embrace Ottoman architectural and aesthetic heritage. North
London’s Azizye mosque has transformed an art deco-style cinema by
fully tiling the front façade with traditional Ottoman tilework. The nearby
Sulemanye mosque, while being largely non-descript, is marked out by
the distinctly Ottoman needle minaret. The South Wales Islamic Centre
of the Yemeni community mixes modernist and Islamic influences to create a distinct architectural composite.
Visual references are not strictly defined according to the mosque makers’ place of origin, and Islamic styles do cross over as Muslim communities in Britain become more diverse and, with generational change, potentially less tied to places of origin and their attendant visual cultures.
Harrow mosque, although established by a South Asian Barelwi community, has been designed in the style of an Ottoman mosque, with a flat
dome and needle minaret. The designer is of Indian Gujarati descent, and
the mosque committee members are from India and Pakistan, so there
were no Turkish links as such. The language was therefore, perhaps, a
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simple matter of choosing an Islamic architectural idiom preferable to all.
Although Sheffield Islamic Centre is a Barelwi mosque, the commissioners, who were British-born, were clear that their design language should
originate in the Middle East and north Africa, as such stylistic approaches
were closer to their own aesthetic tastes. Perhaps there is also an element
of British-born Muslims wanting to demarcate their cultural expression
from that of their parents’ generation, as a demonstration of the forging
of new cultural identities that are not geographically fixed according to
origin but rather according to ideas and affinities.
A key determinant in the design language and expression of the mosque
is its political organisation. Mosques in Britain are, apart from a few exceptions, community-led initiatives. While a mosque committee, for the
most part, may be formed from within a particular ethnic group from the
same place of origin, it is invariably a democratic institution. Therefore,
the members of the mosque committee need to appeal to their electorate – the congregation – to retain their support and resist any leadership
challenges. Rivalry over the control of mosques has been a characteristic
of many mosques established in the 50 years since 1960, and the design of
the mosque becomes a factor in this dynamic.
In one case of a mosque in East London, whose leadership was being
challenged by a rival faction within the congregation, the credibility of
the incumbent committee rested on it being able to deliver a new purpose-built mosque to replace the temporary structures that the mosque
currently operated from. Throughout the design process, the opposing
group criticised the designs of the new mosque as being too ‘modern’ and
not properly Islamic. Religiosity was a measure against which both groups
competed, the group that was the more religiously correct claimed the
right to control the mosque. The design of the new mosque, therefore,
had to reflect this religious diligence, and the more modern the design,
the more liberal the committee and therefore the more unfitting it was to
run the mosque. At one design meeting, one of the members contesting
the mosque leadership stated that ‘we do not want a multicultural minaret, we want an Islamic minaret’. The proposed mosque design, therefore,
went through a series of iterations from initial contemporary offerings
by the architects, which the incumbent committee was broadly satisfied with, to more and more traditional versions, until it was traditional
enough so that it could no longer be used as a point of criticism by the
challenging group, which otherwise used the contemporary designs to
highlight the ‘modernity’ of the incumbents and therefore their distance
from Islamic culture.5
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Delivering a mosque that most people respond to and approve of becomes the committee’s priority over whether it should contribute to a discourse on mosque architecture in Britain. Visually, therefore, the mosque
needs to symbolise its identity quickly and easily to as many of its users as
possible, which means, in essence, replicating known and popular images
of mosques from around the world.
Architectural style, therefore, has been one of the essential mechanisms
through which Muslim communities have made their presence known.
Through their architecture, such communities have presented themselves
to themselves, as well as to the wider society. For example, with Suffatul-Islam in Bradford, when the committee wanted a building that spoke
unequivocally of being ‘a mosque’, they were demarcating what a mosque
should look like for themselves and other Muslims as well as how the wider society should perceive a mosque to be. One can therefore argue that
the new historicist period of mosque building, with the examples shown
here, is an attempt to aesthetically conclude, for the benefit of Muslims
and non-Muslims, what a mosque is.
These are mosques that were built from the late 1970s through to the
turn of the century. In this twenty-year period, most of Britain’s purposebuilt mosques were erected, and with scant resources. Often they were not
designed by architects but by local surveyors, engineers or draughtsmen,
sometimes from within the community. These mosques can be described
as self-built projects, bypassing the professional and procedural norms
and bureaucracies that a large-scale public building would normally be
procured by. The mosques were also built incrementally as funds were
raised and building stages could be funded. In many cases, identifying
elements such as minarets were added a number of years after the mosque
was built and operating. This resulted in an architectural landscape of the
mosque that was piecemeal and composite, combining Islamic and English vernacular idioms, and so presenting a building type that seemed to
be in a tortuous struggle to find its own expression and voice.
This architectural landscape has become the focus of considerable architectural and sociological debate, sometimes termed the architecture of
homesickness, of ‘imitation culture’ or ‘self-Orientalism’ (Verkaaik 2012).
It is a debate that draws some strong reactions, described as ‘a kind of
barbarian Orientalism’ and ‘garish syncretism’, designed by ‘underpaid
jobbing architects’ who are dimly recalling Muslim culture in the SubContinent (Murad 2009).
This state of British mosque architecture even gained the attention of
the mainstream architectural critics, with articles in national papers de-
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crying the state of mosque design. In 2002, a critic asked, ‘Why are there
no great British mosques?’ (Glancey 2002). He considered the mosque in
Woking as the only real expression of a credible Muslim architecture in
the country, with the mosques that followed failing to reach any criteria of
architectural merit, often being ‘no more than brick boxes with minarets
and domes applied like afterthoughts? Why are the new mosques ... so
determinedly glum?’ It was a question that came back in the same paper
a few years later when a commentator lamented that ‘despite the huge
number of new mosques being built, few reach beyond the level of flimsy
imitation’ (Shariatmadari 2007).
However, these critics missed that a turn was taking place. But it was
not a turn towards the contemporary, as the cultural critics would have
liked; rather, it was towards a more traditionally intact and complete architectural object.
The historic turn
The shift from the mosque as an amalgam of vernacular and Islamic styles
to the mosque as a more completely ‘Islamic’ object can be pinpointed
to a mosque in Leeds designed in the early 1990s. The Bilal mosque is a
newly built, free-standing mosque in the inner-city district of Harehills,
built by the same organisation that would later build the Suffat-ul-Islam
in Bradford. The mosque was first designed by a local non-Muslim firm
that was unfamiliar with Islamic buildings, and by accounts, the scheme
was the usual amalgamation of local and Islamic architectural elements
in an ambivalent and unconvincing arrangement. It was the Iraqi structural engineer Al Sammaraie, who had been introduced to the mosque
through some of his other mosque projects in neighbouring towns, who
critiqued the design and pointed out its flaws from the perspective of
Islamic architecture. Based on his perceptions, the mosque committee
asked him to revisit the design and to provide them with a more aesthetically ‘correct’ Islamic building. With this brief, Al Sammaraie set to work
revising the scheme, working through the plans and elevations to bring
symmetry, decoration and a formality to the layouts. Internally, a hexagonal marble fountain was introduced into the entrance lobby, an interiorised interpretation of the traditional mosque courtyard with ablution
fountain. Early sketches of the exterior show the tiled pitched roof being embellished with a decorated minaret, until it is replaced completely
with a parapet wall punctuated with double storey glazing which serves
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to situate the dome, rather than it being somewhat awkwardly enmeshed
into the pitch of the roof.
By the time the scheme gained planning permission in 1993, two hexagonal minarets stood at the front corners, and a pair of smaller minarets flanked a double height entrance portico, projecting forward from
the front façade. The parapets were decorated, and a pair of squat onion
domes sat on castle-like turrets on the rear corners of the building. The
walls were faced in buff-coloured forticrete blockwork, resembling stone,
with pairs of arched windows arranged along the facades. A large green
dome, slightly bulbous around its middle, is off centre on the plan, so that
it can be central in the first-floor prayer hall.
All reference to the local architectural context is gone, there is no red
brick to reference the terraced housing, or tile or pitched roofs. The windows are also ‘Islamised’ in shape and are extended to read as double
storey openings in the walls. Although Al Sammaraie had been working
on additions or interventions to mosques prior to Bilal, this was his first
complete mosque where he could express his ideas for a completely new
building. The result is the first in a series of mosques that Al Sammaraie would go on to design, benefitting from the positive exposure that
the Bilal mosque came to receive from within and outside the Muslim
community. With Bilal as the precursor to this trend, the mosques would
move away from the assemblage aesthetic of earlier buildings and instead
seek to represent a more singular coherent aesthetic, one that was based
on a discourse of ‘Islamic authenticity’ in the field of architecture.
Al-Sammaraie himself was able to propagate this architectural vision
through a string of commissions that followed the Bilal mosque, which
was held up as an exemplar of mosque design in Britain. His influence in
the Midlands and the north of England was extensive, with the number
of mosques that he has designed since running well into double figures.
This completes the ‘Islamisation’ of the mosque, where any attempt at
referencing local styles and architectural approaches has been abandoned
in favour of an aesthetic that is wholly founded on Islamic traditions.
Al-Sammarie’s later projects in Bradford and Peterborough show this
newly inspired determination, where the mosques are full expressions of
Muslim visual traditions. It is not a trend limited to one designer, as the
Jameah mosque in Leicester shows, it being an articulate representation
of Fatimid Cairene architecture.
A number of factors made this shift possible, the primary one being the changing status of Muslim communities. British-born and British-educated second-generation Muslims were entering adulthood and
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joining in the communities’ institution-building. Funding was better
organised and resourced, with mosques developing sophisticated and
successful funding strategies to raise capital. Muslim design and construction professionals were now operating in the market, resulting in
potentially better communication and understanding between client
and design team.
The mosque was no longer a self-built project, assembled over time
with a combination of Islamic and local styles. Instead, it had become an
idea that was preconceived by designers, and then implemented, perhaps
still over a longer period than normal, but as one complete and coherent
piece of architecture.
New narratives
In 2011, a planning application was submitted for a new purpose-built
mosque on Mill Road in Cambridge, a thoroughfare that forms the geographic focus for the city’s Muslim communities. The new mosque was
to replace the Abu Bakr mosque within a mile of the new site, a former chapel converted in 1984 that was now too small for the expanded
congregation. The site was purchased by the Muslim Academic Trust, a
charity led by Yusuf Islam, perhaps the most famous contemporary English convert to Islam. The secretary of the trust and the ideational force
behind the new project is Tim Winters, also an English convert to Islam
and Cambridge academic, who is a prolific writer on aspects of British
Muslim culture.
In the new mosque’s design statement, Winters articulates a critique of
mosque design in Britain and positions Cambridge as something of an antidote to what is presented as an uninspiring architectural heritage. Winters describes these ‘first-generation’ buildings as ‘cheap but vast barns
to keep the rain from the heads of worshippers, with scant attention paid
to architectural nuance.’ He makes the point that while generational shift
within the Muslim communities brings with it new aspirations, ‘a newer
generation, both more educated and more reflective about religion, is
growing restless.’ (Winters 2011)
The question of style that has dogged mosques in Britain from the earliest examples reverberates here in Cambridge, as Winters writes:
Mosque design has historically reflected the local cultures of the Muslim world. A mosque in Java bears no resemblance to a mosque in Bos-
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nia, or a mosque in Senegal. And with Cambridge Muslims claiming
such a diversity of origins, it was far from clear what the chosen idiom
should be.
A hybrid seemed inevitable, and one with local references. But if
mosque design has historically reflected local culture, how could British architecture figure in the shaping of the Cambridge building? One
could quarry the past, and build a Gothic or a Palladian mosque. The
dangers of pastiche would be immense. So, too, would be the potential
alienation of the mosque’s users, unused to the religion’s heritage and
its particular notion of the sacred.6
An international design competition was held to select the design proposal for Cambridge, with submissions varying from ‘brutalist concrete
... [to] Star Trek futurism, replicas of medieval Syrian buildings, and revivals of Victorian architecture’ (ibid). The winning design was by Marks
Barfield Architects, prominent British architects who had designed such
avant-garde structures as the London Eye, and who had cut their teeth on
Islamic projects for Yusuf Islam in north London.
From the outset, the architects have situated the design scheme within
the narratives of Islamic architecture, opening their explanation of the
concept by referring to descriptions of Islamic architecture as the ‘architecture of the veil’, where beauty lies in the inner spaces that are not visible
to the outside.7 This idea of an inner facing building, enclosed around a
courtyard, is further legitimised with reference to the first mosque, that of
the Prophet Muhammed in Medina, which established this typology. This
concept is adapted in the Cambridge design into the idea of the mosque
as a ‘calm oasis’, again evoking imagery from medieval Arab imaginations.
The architects are aware, however, of local context and raise the question
of ‘what should an English mosque look like and how should it be adapted
to English culture’. What sets Cambridge apart from the wider genre of
British mosques is this very question, which does not seem to have been
raised in any of the other mosques across the country. While a handful of
other mosques may be seen to be dealing with this issue of local context,
it is has never been verbalised as explicitly as it is here.
The architects set out to address this by attempting to ‘synthesise the
essential application of geometry with Islamic and English heritage’.8 The
building is therefore organised with a grid of structural ‘trees’, ‘evoking the
14th century English innovation of the fan vault’, and ‘the concept of the
oasis is reinforced across the whole site with over 60 new trees creating a
permeable green edge around the new building’.
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The building geometry is arranged as a sequence of spaces from the
front of the site to the rear, culminating in a large square prayer hall. At
the front, a landscaped garden mediates between the street and the building. A modestly proportioned gilt dome, internally decorated with geometric tracery, is placed off centre in the prayer hall towards the mihrab,
an arrangement reminiscent of Andalusian Islamic architecture, for example the Mezquita in Cordoba from the tenth century. Also similar to
traditional mosques is that the Cambridge mosque is laid out over a single
floor, with only a limited second-floor element, with the atrium and portico being two storeys high and the prayer hall three storeys. The whole
building is enclosed with a brick skin, patterned with diamond-shaped
profiled brickwork in a light buff Cambridgeshire brick, thereby materially tying the building in to its context.
The mosque has been designed in conjunction with Professor Keith
Critchlow, an expert in sacred and Islamic art and founder of the organisation Kairos, which promotes the traditional values of art and science.
He founded the Visual Islamic and Traditional Arts School in 1984, which
eventually became the Prince’s School for Traditional Arts. His colleague
at the School, Emma Clark, an expert in traditional Islamic gardens, was
engaged to design the garden for the mosque.
The proposed mosque for Cambridge marks a step change in the narrative of British mosque design. It is perhaps the first mosque to ask
the question of what an English mosque should be. The response to this
question is not a building that moves away from traditional Islamic architecture and visual culture to develop a new ‘English’ form but, on the
contrary, one that moves towards traditional Islamic roots in a more profoundly academic way that is perhaps perceived by its commissioners as
more authentic. Although Winters states that the building is ‘strongly
modern in inspiration and temper’, its final bearing is perhaps determined through the make up of its design consultants, who are versed in
traditionalism and pre-modern aesthetics, Marks Barfield perhaps being
the anomaly.
Through asking a series of questions about design and cultural identity, Cambridge attempts to position itself as both an Islamicly authentic
building and an English one. It therefore overlaps with the new historicist mosque genre through its reliance on an interpretation of traditional
Muslim architecture and suggests a new one where forms are re-invented
for an English context.
As one of the newest major mosques being conceived in Britain, Cambridge points to a future in which Islamic tradition is carefully studied
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and then translated into British mosque design. It requires resources and
professionalism to work, both of which are slowly becoming available to
some Muslim communities. It represents the modernisation of the design
process, where the building is conceived as an idea in totality before being
implemented – again, a step-change from the mosques that are designed
and built incrementally as part of a process of community formation and
development. The notion that Cambridge represents the mosque returning more accurately and completely to its Islamic roots is also in line with
the earlier mosques in the new historicist era, such as Suffat-ul-Islam and
Jameah Leicester. So while it stands apart, it is also part of a wider trend
towards a more completely historical turn.
Notes








For the purposes of this article, South Asia is taken to refer to India, Pakistan
and Bangladesh.
The mihrab is the prayer niche in which the Imam leading the prayer stands,
and the minbar is a series of steps, similar in function to the pulpit in a
church, from which the Imam delivers part of the sermon for the Friday congregational prayer.
lb Merton planning file ref. mer / Objection letter dated  November
.
Bolton City Council Planning File , Haliwell Rd Mosque.
Interview with Makespace Architects, mosque location not disclosed 
March .
Timothy Winters in Cambridge Mosque Design and Access Statement, Marks
Barfield Architects,  November .
Proposed Mosque, Mill Road, Cambridge, Design and Access Statement,
Marks Barfield Architects,  November .
Ibid.
References
Ansari, Humayun (2004) The Infidel Within: The History of Muslims in
Britain, 1800 to the Present. London: Hurst & Co.
Eade, John (1996) “The Islamisation of Space in London”. In Barbara Metcalf (ed.), Making Muslim Space in North America and Europe. Berkeley: University of California Press, 217-233.
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Glancey, Jonathan (2002) “Why are there no great British Mosques?”, The
Guardian 17 June 2002.
Lewis, Philip (2002) Islamic Britain. London: I.B. Taurus.
McLoughlin, Sean (2005) “Mosques and the Public Space: Conflict and
Cooperation in Bradford”, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies
31/6: 1045-1066.
Metcalf, Barbara (1996) Making Muslim Space in North America and Europe. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Murad, Abdul Hakim (2009) “Praying for the Mosque”, Emel Magazine
no. 53: 32-34.
Nasser, Noha (2003) “The Space of Displacement”, Traditional Dwellings
and Settlements Review vol. xv, no. 1: 7-21.
Shariatmadari, David (2007) “Modern Mosques are as Bad as Barrett
Homes”, The Guardian 3 August 2007.
Verkaaik, Oskar (2012) “Designing the ‘Anti-Mosque’: Identity, Religion
and Affect in Contemporary European Mosque Design”, Social Anthropology 20 (2): 161-178.
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About the Authors
Richard Irvine is a lecturer in social anthropology at the University of
Cambridge. His doctoral research involved a year spent in and around
Downside Abbey in Somerset, eating in silence in the monastic refectory,
learning to make things in the carpentry workshop, drinking tea and following the daily cycle of prayer. He retains an active interest in the anthropology of Christianity but has now expanded his ethnographic work
to pay greater attention to landscape and environmental change in contemporary Britain.
Ivan Kalmar is professor of anthropology at the University of Toronto.
His main work has addressed parallels in the image of Muslims and Jews
in Western Christian cultural history. His article “Moorish Style: Orientalism, Jews, and Synagogue Architecture” appeared in Jewish Social
Studies in 2001. In 2005, Kalmar co-edited Orientalism and the Jews (University Press of New England). He published Early Orientalism: Imagined
Islam and the Notion of Sublime Power (London: Routledge) in 2012. Most
recently, Kalmar has been researching and writing about connections between antisemitism and Islamophobia.
Tobias Köllner completed his Ph.D. in social anthropology at the University of Leipzig in 2011. He has conducted research in European Russia,
which was part of his Ph.D. project funded by the Max Planck Institute for
Social Anthropology in Halle. He is co-author of the 2010 article “Spreading Grace in Post-Soviet Russia” in Anthropology Today and author of the
2011 article “Built with Gold or Tears?” Currently he works as a consultant
and is a member of the research centre for transformations at the Otto
von Guericke University in Magdeburg, Germany.
Trevor H.J. Marchand is professor of social anthropology at soas and a
British Academy Fellow. Marchand was trained as an architect (McGill)
and received a PhD in anthropology (soas). He has conducted fieldwork
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with masons and craftspeople in Yemen, Mali and East London. He is
the author of Minaret Building and Apprenticeship in Yemen (2001) and
The Masons of Djenné (2009); editor of Making Knowledge (2010) and
co-editor of Knowledge in Practice (2009, with K. Kresse) and The Sage
Handbook of Social Anthropology (2012, with R. Fardon et al.). In 2007,
he co-produced the documentary film Future of Mud with S. Vogel, and
he is presently curating a new exhibition on the masons of Djenné with
M.J. Arnoldi for the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.
His next monograph, The Pursuit of Pleasurable Work, is based on long
fieldwork with uk woodworkers and furniture makers.
Mattijs van de Port is professor of popular religiosity at the vu University
in Amsterdam, and assistant professor of anthropology at the University
of Amsterdam. He has done research in the former Yugoslavia (Gyspies,
Wars & Other instances of the Wild, Amsterdam University Press: 1998),
the Netherlands (Geliquideerd: Afrekeningen in het Criminele Milieu,
Meulenhoff: 2001) and since 2001 in Bahia, Brazil. His most recent book
is Ecstatic Encounters: Bahian Candomblé and the Quest for the Really
Real (Amsterdam University Press: 2011).
Shahed Saleem, Dip Arch. ma riba, is founder and director of Makespace
Architects and author of a forthcoming book on the history of mosques
in Britain, commissioned and published by English Heritage. His practice
specialises in mosque design and was nominated for the v&a Jameel Prize
2013 for its work in exploring contemporary Muslim architecture. He also
teaches architecture at the University of Westminster.
Pooyan Tamimi Arab received undergraduate degrees in philosophy and
art history from the University of Amsterdam. After completing his Master’s in Philosophy in 2010 at the New School for Social Research in New
York, he began a Ph.D. research project at the cultural anthropology department of Utrecht University. He is currently writing his dissertation,
which is on the amplified Islamic call to prayer in the Netherlands.
Markha Valenta is assistant professor in international American studies
at Radboud University in Nijmegen. Her work and teaching address the
interplay between religion, politics and globality using an interdisciplinary and comparative approach. Current projects include a study of the
politics of religious buildings in postcolonial port cities under neoliberalisation – focusing on Mumbai, Amsterdam and New York – and a study
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of the accommodation and repudiation of Muslims as a global minority in
secular democracies since 9/11.
Oskar Verkaaik is associate professor of anthropology at the University of
Amsterdam. He previously worked as a post-doc fellow at the University of
Chicago and as an assistant professor at the Free University Amsterdam.
He has done fieldwork on religion and politics in Pakistan, Spain, Germany and the Netherlands. He is the author of Migrants and Militants: ‘Fun’
and Urban Violence in Pakistan (Princeton University Press) and Ritueel
Burgerschap: Een Essay over Nationalisme en Secularisme (Amsterdam
University Press), and has co-authored special issues on informal urban
power and sexual politics in Critique of Anthropology and Focaal respectively. He is currently working on a comparative ethnography of contemporary mosques, synagogues, churches and temples in Europe. He also
enjoys teaching courses on anthropological theory, ethnographic writing
and applications of anthropology.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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Index
acoustics see sound
Actor Network Theory 12
aesthetic formations 9, 48, 64
aesthetics 17, 19, 36, 58-59, 68, 71,
73, 78, 99, 101, 104, 123, 140, 149150, 152-154, 162, 165-167, 172,
190, 194-199, 202
affect 9, 11-13, 16-17, 20, 56, 65,
105, 153, 165
Aga Khan Trust for Culture
(aktc) 19, 117, 133-140
Ahmediyya 156
Alhambra 19, 149-150, 154-155,
163, 165, 176, 179
Amado, Jorge 73
Ambarnath – Shiva temple of 101,
105
Amiens, cathedral of 34
Amsterdam 113
Andalusia 149-160, 164-167,
202
Andalusian style see Moorish
style
Anderson, Benedict 40
Appadurai, Arjun 11, 65, 85
ibn Arabi 153
Aragita, Elena 156-157
architecture
counterfactual – 16-17, 25,
36-41
ecstatic – 15
islamic – 47, 151, 159, 198, 201-202
parlante (speaking architecture)
11
Arendt, Hannah 56
Art Deco 192, 195
Asad, Talal 9, 13-14, 91, 181
Assayag, Jackie 108
Augé, Marc 10, 16, 40
aura 106, 165
authenticity 15, 19, 79, 120, 140,
150, 158, 165, 199, 202
Averini, Riccardo 73, 76
Avila, Affonso 72
Bachelard, Gaston 13
Badiou, Alain 75
Bamako 136, 144-145
baroque 17, 63-75
Barthes, Roland 17, 76-77
Bastide, Roger 71-72
Bataille, George 14, 17, 63, 70
Bateson, Gregory 12
Bath Abbey 35
Baugh, Bruce 66
Baumgarten, Jens 17
beauty 19, 36, 149, 153-154, 164165, 167, 201
Bender, Barbara 140
Benedict, Saint 25
Benjamin, Walter 68, 165
Bloch, Maurice 10, 37
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Bombay see also Mumbai 100,
102-105, 110-111, 113
Botton, Alain de 56
Bourdieu, Pierre 10
Bourgeois, J.L. 121, 126, 134-135, 138
Buci-Glucksman, Christine 68
Buchli, Victor 10, 11
building techniques 19, 117
Eagleton, Terry 79
ecstasy 72, 77
enlightenment 71, 105
Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 14
experience, religious 9-10, 12-13,
16-17, 38, 41, 48, 64-66, 75-79,
113, 150, 153-154, 159-160, 165167, 191
calligraphy 152, 163
Cambridge 200-203
Candomblé 72
Casablanca 8
Cesari, Joycelyne 48
charity 37, 200
Chester cathedral 35
city
city-scape 49, 59
right to the – 47, 57-58
colonialism 8, 17, 101, 108, 119120, 122-122, 128, 185, 206
community centres 7, 16
constructivism, critique of 55-56
conversion
– of buildings 188
– of people 31, 36, 111, 154, 1
59
Cordoba 155-156, 163-164, 176,
202
cosmos 64, 78, 86
Farhat, Wael 50
Fatimid style 195, 199
Fiske, John 76-77
Fortier, Edmond 119
Foucault, Michel 14, 55
France 8, 31, 49
Freire, Luis 70-71
Frejus 119
Fulani empire 121-123, 128, 140,
143
funding 86-88, 91, 94, 106-107, 200
Darshan 104-106, 110, 114
Deleuze, Gilles 12
Djenné 19, 117-145
Dodds, Jerrylynn 7-8, 152-153
dogma, religious 8, 150
donations see funding
Downside Abbey 15, 25-46
Durkheim, Emile 10
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Gallop, Jane 76-77
Gandhi 99
gated communities 18, 104
Geertz, Clifford 10, 13, 64, 66, 79
Gell, Alfred 12
Germany 7-8, 49, 156
Gesamtkunstwerk 68
Gibberd, Sir Frederick 193-194
Glastonbury Abbey 33-35
globalization 100, 112, 185
gold 67-76, 86, 103, 105, 160-161,
167
Goody, Jack 14
Granada 19, 149-169, 176
‘Ground Zero Mosque’ 51
habitus 19, 150-151, 159, 162, 166
Hansen, Joao Adolfo 64-65, 67
Hegel, G.W.F. 12
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Heidegger, Martin 11, 56
heritage 7, 16-19, 33, 35, 51, 84, 91,
104, 113, 117, 119-120, 127-128,
131, 134-141, 149-151, 154, 157,
160, 164-167, 176, 195, 200-201
Heterotopia 14, 16
Hinduism 18
Hindu politics 18, 99, 102, 107108, 110, 112-113
Hindu temples 7, 17, 107-108
historicism 166
Hobsbawm, Eric 37
horarium 28, 38-39, 41, 43
Huntington, Samuel 157
iconoclasm 9, 11, 153
iconostasis 86-87, 90
icons 69, 86-88, 90-91, 94, 100,
105, 114, 120, 194
identity 76
communal – 103, 119
English – 20, 25, 31, 189, 191
European – 152
– marker 166
national – 57-58, 99, 120, 157158
– politics 104, 151, 156, 166
religious – 8-10, 13, 16-18, 2728, 109, 117, 121, 149, 152, 171,
180, 188-189, 190, 197, 202
India 7, 64, 99-116, 186-187, 192,
194-195
Ingold, Tim 11
interior design 67, 71, 163-164
Islam
Barelwi – 195-196
Darqawiyyah – 155
Deobandi – 195
– in Europe 17, 47-62, 185-203
Nasqhbandi – 156
INDEX
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– in Spain 19, 149-169
Yusuf – 200
Islamabad 8
Islamism 139, 144
Israel 110
Istanbul 152, 163, 180
James, William 66, 79
Jay, Martin 70
Jihad 120-122, 140, 143
Joy, Charlotte 128
Kahera, Akel Ismail 153
Keane, Webb 9
Kopytoff, Igor 85
Latour, Bruno 12, 17, 48, 55-56,
59, 85
Leach, Edmund 10, 17, 64, 66
lifestyle 27, 30, 93, 150, 159, 162
liturgy 26, 28-29, 32, 38
Liverpool Cathedral 193
London, mosques in 49, 54, 185186, 189, 192-193, 195-196
Madrasah 152, 155, 163
Mahalaxmi Temple 101
Mahmood, Saba 12, 154
Malinowski, Bronislaw 8
Mamluk style 11
Marrakech 152
Massumi, Brian 13
materiality 9, 11, 17, 19, 55, 85, 95, 194
Mauss, Marcel 12
Maussen, Marcel 49, 60
Mecca 109-110, 124-125, 152, 187
media 18, 47, 52, 54, 64, 77, 83,
100, 103, 110, 113-114, 131, 151, 154
mediation 54-55, 57, 153-154
meditation 126
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Metcalf, Barbara 8, 14, 151, 190-191
Meyer, Birgit 9, 48, 58, 69, 78,
153-154
migration 47, 113, 185-187, 189
Miller, Daniel 9, 12, 85
Mitchell, M.T.J. 68
modernism 192-193
Mommersteeg, Geert 119, 121,
125, 142-144
Montes, Maria Lucia 71
Moorish style 8, 19-20, 150, 163,
171-173, 176-181
Moors, Annelies 12
Mopti 119, 122, 133-134, 145
Morgan, David 9
Morocco 155-156, 159, 163
Mousgoum 142
Mudejar style 150-151, 155, 158, 162
Mughal style 192, 194-195
multicultural society 7, 53, 111,
114, 127, 174, 189, 196
multi-faith centres 7
Mumbai see also Bombay 18,
100-101, 103-104, 109-114
Mumford, Lewis 38, 43
mysticism 156, 166
Nasrid style 158-160
Navaro-Yashin, Yael 12
Nelson, Steven 10, 142
Neo-Classicism 71
Neo-Gothic 8, 16
neoliberalism 99-101, 112-113
New York 7, 15, 51, 152, 175, 180
orientalism 173, 181, 192, 197
ornament 67-69, 71-72, 149, 152,
174, 179
Ottoman style 11, 49, 195
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Pallasmaa, Juhani 13
Pevsner, Nikolaus 34
Portoghesi, Paolo 50
postmodernism 15
Prussin, Labelle 120, 123, 142
Pugin, A.W. 36-38, 43
al-Qaeda 132, 144
Rabinow, Paul 11
Rajagopal, Arvind 102, 112
Rappoport, Roy 15, 181
Regent’s Park Mosque 186, 192194
relics 87, 89-90
restoration 32, 34, 43, 133, 137,
139-140, 143-144, 155
ritual 8-10, 14-16, 19, 25, 28-30, 37,
51, 87, 90, 103, 106, 119, 128, 131,
140, 154-155, 157, 162, 165, 171,
181, 187, 190-191
Rome 31, 33, 50-51, 54
Roose, Eric 11, 60, 151
Roy, Ananya 99
Ruskin, John 143
Russian Orthodox Church 7, 18,
51, 83-86, 91, 94
Salafists 164, 166
Saudi-Arabia 155, 157
secularism 14, 111
security 18, 33, 70, 103, 105, 109110, 139, 144
Sharia 144-145, 155
Shiv Sena 18, 107, 110, 113
Sinan 49
Sloterdijk, Peter 159
Smith, Jonathan 14
Sobchack, Vivian 77-78
socialism 37, 83-84, 88, 92, 96
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sound 9, 28, 40, 105, 133, 137-138
Soviet-Union 7, 85
space 11
affective – 12
islamisation of – 190-191
public – 18, 105, 112-113
politics of – 10, 57, 100
religious – 10, 12, 14, 25, 28-30,
151, 171, 174
sacred – 7, 118
Spinoza 12
Stavrakakis, Yannis 79
sublime 14-18, 66, 154, 178
Sudanese style 119, 133, 142
sufism 156, 161, 164
Sunna 156, 159, 162, 166
synagogues 7-8, 10, 13-14, 19-20,
104, 171-182
Syria 155-156, 159, 201
tourism 19, 51, 67, 69, 74-75, 78,
118-120, 127-128, 130-132, 134,
139, 144, 150, 154-155, 157-158,
164-165
traditionalism 193, 202
trompe l’oeuil 67-68
Tuareg 132, 139, 144
Turner, Victor 65
Teleuk 142
Timbuktu 120, 128, 133, 136, 139,
142, 144
Zerubavel, Eviatar 38, 43
Žižek, Slavoj 79
Zumthor, Peter 13
INDEX
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unesco 84, 135-136, 142-144
Vellinga, Marcel 10-11
Venice 50-51
Victorian architecture 186, 192,
201
Viollet-le-Duc, Eugene 123, 143
Visigoths 152
Woking mosque 185, 192, 198
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